
t'lass 



liOOK 



i')d:si:NTi:i) in 



POEMS 



POEMS 



BY 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 



A NEW edition: 




t 



NEW YORK: 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., 

No. 13 AsTOR Place. 



LfS?^*^ 



^^s: 



Grrr 

tWieS LETITM THoivi^g 
^^^- a 1940 



4 



TO ; 

WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI, 1 

THESE POEMS, 

TO SO MANY OF WHICH, SO MANY YEARS BACK, \ 

HE GAVE THE FIRST BROTHERLY HEARING, [ 

ARE NOW AT LAST DEDICATED. '- 

■ i 

\ 

187O-1S81. \ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



" Many poems in this volume were written be- 
tween 1847 ^^^ 1^53- Others are of recent date, 
and a few belong to the intervening period. It 
has been thought unnecessary to specify the earlier 
work as nothing is included which the author believes 
to be immature." 

The above brief note was prefixed to these poems 
when first published in 1870. They have now been 
for some time out of print. 

The fifty sonnets of the House of Life which 
first appeared here are now embodied with the 
full series in the volume entitled "Ballads and 
Sonnets." 

The fragment of The Bride's Prelude, now first 
printed, was written very early, and is here asso- 
ciated with other work of the same date ; though 
its publication in an unfinished form needs some 
indulgence. 



-J/— 



-t 



CONTENTS 



POEMS. 













PAGE. 


THE BLESSED DAMOZEL . 










3 


SISTER HELEN 










lO 


STRATTON WATER . 










25 


THE STAFF AND SCRIP 










34 


AVE 










45 


DANTE AT VERONA. 










51 


TROY TOWN . 










77 


EDEN BOWER 










82 


THE CARD-DEALER. 










92 


love's NOCTURN . 










95 


THE stream's secret , 










103 


JENNY . 










115 


THE PORTRAIT 










^33 


MY sister's SLEEP . 










138 


DOWN STREAM 










142 


A LAST CONFESSION 










144 


THE BURDEN OF NINEVEl 


a 








. 170 


WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL 










180 


AN OLD SONG ENDED 










184 


world's WORTH . 










. 185 


ASPECTA MEDUSA . 










. i^, 


THE bride's PRELUDE 










. 188 



X CONTENTS. 








LYRICS. 


PAGE. 


LOVE-LILY 2-^7 


FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED 




. 




239 


PLIGHTED PROMISE . 








240 


SUDDEN LIGHT 








242 


A LHTLE WHILE . 








243 


THE SONG OF THE BOWER 








245 


PENUMBRA . 








247 


A new-year's burden . 








249 


EVEN SO ... . 








250 


THE WOODSPURGE . 








251 


THE HONEYSUCKLE . 








252 


A YOUNG FIR-WOOD 








253 


THE SEA-LIMITS 








254 



SONNETS. 



FOR " OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS " BY LEONARDO DA 

VINCI 259 

FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL BY GIORGIONE . . 260 

FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN BY ANDREA 

MANTEGNA 261 

FOR " RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA " BY INGRES . .262-3 

FOR "THE WINE OF CIRCE " BY EDWARD BURNE 

JONES 264 



CONTENTS. 



MARY'S GIRLHOOD . 

THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY 

MARY MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF 

PHARISEE 
CASSANDRA .... 
VENUS VERTICORDIA . 
PANDORA .... 

ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS 
ON THE " VITA NUOVA " OF DANTE 
DANTIS TENEBR^ 
BEAUTY AND THE BIRD 
A MATCH WITH THE MOON. 



SIMON THE 



PACE 
265 
266 

267 

268-9 

270 

271 

272 

274 
276 



TRANSLATIONS. 

THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES (vILLOn) 

TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY (vILLOn) 

HIS mother's SERVICE TO OUR LADY (vILLON) 

JOHN OF TOURS (OLD FRENCH) . 

MY father's close (old french) 

BEAUTY ( SAPPHO ) .... 
YOUTH AND LORDSHIP (ITALIAN STREET-SONC) 
THE LEAF (lEOPARDI). 
FRANCESCA DA RIMINI (dANTE) . 



279 
281 
282 
284 
286 
288 
289 
292 
293 



r 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of Heaven ; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even ; 

She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
For service meetly worn ; 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Herseemed she scarce had been a day 
One of God's choristers ; 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

The wonder was not yet quite gone 
From that still look of hers ; 

Albeit, to them she left, her day- 
Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place, 
Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing : the autumn-fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on ; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

Around her, lovers, newly met 

'Mid deathless love's acclaims. 
Spoke evermore among themselves 

Their heart-remembered names ; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm. 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 



The sun was gone now ; the curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now 

She spoke through the still weather. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

Her voice was like the voice the stars 
Had when they sang together. 

(Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents there, 
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air, 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair?) 

" I wish that he were come to me, 

For he will come," she said. 
" Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on earth. 

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 

And shall I feel afraid? 

" When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll t^ke his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light ; 
As unto a stream we will step down. 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

" We two will stand beside that shrine, 
Occult, withheld, untrod, 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 



Whose lamps are stirred continually 
With prayer sent up to God ; 

And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
Each like a little cloud. 



" We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 

" And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so, 
The songs I sing here ; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 
And find some knowledge at each pause, 

Or some new thing to know." 



(Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee ?) 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

" We two," she said, " will seek the groves 

Where the lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 

" Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread, 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

" He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : 

Then will I lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abashed or weak : 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 

" Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. 

To him round whom all souls 
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 

Bowed with their aureoles : 



THE BLESSn-jJ DAMOZEL, 

And angels meeting us shall sing 
To their citherns and citoles. 

" There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for him and me : — 

Only to live as once on earth 
With Love, — only to be, 

As then awhile, for ever now 
Together, I and he." 

She gazed and listened and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrilled towards her, fill'd 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd, 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres : 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers, 

And laid her face between her hands, 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 



J- 



I 



SISTER HELEN. 

" Why did you melt your waxen man, 

Sister Helen? 

To-day is the third since you began." 

*' The time was long, yet the time ran, 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven /) 

"But if you have done your work aright, 

Sister Helen, 
You'll let me play, for you said I might." 
" Be very still in your play to-night, 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven f) 



SISTER HELEN. Ii 

" You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, 

Sister Helen ; 
If now it be molten, all is well." 
" Even so, — nay, peace ! you cannot tell, 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
O what is this, bciwceii Hell and Heaven ?) 



" Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, 

Sister Helen ; 
How like dead folk he has dropped away ! " 
" Nay now, of the dead what can you say. 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
IVliat of the dead, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

"■ See, see, the sunken pile of wood, 

Sister Helen, 
Shines through the thinned wax red as blood ! " 
" Nay now, when looked you yet on blood, 

Little brother? " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven !) 



; 12 SISTER HELEN. 

" Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, 
I Sister Helen, 

I And I'll play without the gallery door." 

I " Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor, 

\ Little brother." 

( O Mo the?', Mary Mother, 

What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven .?) 



" Here high up in the balcony, 

Sister Helen, 
The moon flies face to face with me." 
" Aye, look and say whatever you see, 

Little brother." 
{O Mother, Mary Mother, 
WJiat sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

" Outside it's merry in the wind's wake. 

Sister Helen ; 

In the shaken trees the chill stars shake." 

" Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake, 

Little brother ?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) 



S/STER HELEN. 13 

" I hear a horse-tread, and I see, 

Sister Helen, 
Three horsemen that ride terribly." 
" Little brother, whence come the three, 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven ?) 



" They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, 

Sister Helen, 
And one draws nigh, but two are afar." 
" Look, look, do you know them who they are, 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Who should they he, betiveen Hell afid Heaven ?) 



*' Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, 

Sister Helen, 

For I know the white mane on the blast." 

" The hour has come, has come at last, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven /) 



14 SISTER HELEN. 

" He has made a sign and called Halloo ! 

Sister Helen, 
And he says that he would speak with you." 
" Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

" The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, 

Sister Helen, 

That Keith of Ewern's like to die." 

" And he and thou, and thou and I, 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

And they and we, between Hell and Heaven !) 



" Three days ago, on his marriage-morn, 

Sister Helen, 

He sickened, and lies since then forlorn." 

" For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn, 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven /) 



SISTER HELEN. 

'' Three days and nights he has lain abed, 

Sister Helen, 

And he prays in torment to be dead." 

" The thing may chance, if he have prayed, 

Litde brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven !^ 



IS 



" But he has not ceased to cry to-day. 

Sister Helen, 

That you should take your curse away." 

" My prayer was heard, — he need but pray, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven ?) 



" But he says, till you take back your ban, 

Sister Helen, 

His soul would pass, yet never can." 

" Nay then, shall I slay a living man, 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

A living soul, between Hell and Heaven /) 



^mmmmmmmmsmBmf' 



1 6 SISTER HELEN-. 

" But he calls for ever on your name, 

Sister Helen, 

And says that he melts before a flame." 

" My heart for his pleasure fared the same, 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Fire at the heart, between Hell a?ul Heaven /) 

" Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast. 

Sister Helen, 

For I know the white plume on the blast." 

" The hour, the sweet hour I forecast, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Is the hour sweet, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) 

" He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, 

Sister Helen ; 

But his words are drowned in the wind's course." 

" Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce. 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

What word now heard, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) 



SISTER HELEN-. 17 

" Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, 

Sister Helen, 

Is ever to see you ere he die." 

" In all that his soul sees, there am I, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

The souPs one sight, between Hell and Heaven /) 

" He sends a ring and a broken coin. 

Sister Helen, 

And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 

" What else he broke will he ever join, 

Little brother? " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

No, never joined, betiveen Hell and Heaven /) 

" He yields you these and craves full fain, 

Sister Helen, 

You pardon him in his mortal pain." 

*' What else he took will he give again, 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven /) 



i8 SISTER HELEN-. 

" He calls your name in agony, 

Sister Helen, 
That even dead Love must weep to see." 
" Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, 

Little brother ! " 
{O Mother, Mary Mo/her, 
Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven /) 

" Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast, 

Sister Helen, 

For I know the white hair on the blast." 

" The short short hour will soon be' past. 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven /) 

" He looks at me and he tries to speak. 

Sister Helen, 

But oh ! his voice is sad and weak ! " 

" What here should the mighty Baron seek. 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother^ 

Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven ?) 



SISTER HELEN'. 19 

" Oh his son still cries, if you forgive, 

Sister Helen, 

The body dies but the soul shall live." 

" Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, 

Litttle brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

As she forgives, bet^veen Hell and Heaven /) 

" Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive. 

Sister Helen, 

To save his dear son's soul alive." 

" Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive. 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven /) 

" He cries to you, kneeling in the road. 

Sister Helen, 

To go with him for the love of God ! " 

" The way is long to his son's abode. 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

The way is long, betiveen Hell and Heaven f) 



20 SISTER HELEN: 

" A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, 

Sister Helen, 

So darkly clad, I saw her not." 

" See her now or never see aught. 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

What more to see, between Hell and Heaven .?) 

" Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, ^ 

Sister Helen, 
On Lady of Ewern's golden hair." 

" Blest hour of my power and her despair, ^ 

Little brother ! " : 

( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and Heaven /) 

" Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow. 

Sister Helen, ■• 

'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." [ 

" One morn for pride and three days for woe. 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, \ 

Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven /) ^ 



SISTER HELEN: 21 | 

" Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head, | 

Sister Helen ; \ 

With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed." \ 

" What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed, ': 



And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow." 
" Let it turn whiter than winter snow, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven /) 



Little brother?" : 

( O Mother, Mary Mother, | 

What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven ?) \ 

" She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon, i 

Sister Helen, — I 

I 
She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." | 

I 
" Oh ! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune, \ 

s 
Litde brother ! " f 

( O Mother, Mary Mother, | 

Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven /) | 

I 

" They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow, I 

Sister Helen, | 



22 S/STER HELEN: 

" O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, 

Sister Helen ! 

More loud than the vesper-chime it fell/' 

" No vesperTchime, but a dying knell, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Af other, Mary Mother, 

His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven /) 

" Alas ! but I fear the heavy sound. 

Sister Helen ; 

Is it in the sky or in the ground? " 

'' Say, have they turned their horses round, 

Little brother?" 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

What would she more, bctiveen Hell and Heaven f) 

" They have raised the old man from his knee. 

Sister Helen, 

And they ride in. silence hastily." 

" More fast the naked soul doth flee, 

Litde brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven /) 



SISTER HELEN: 23 

" Flank to flank are the three steeds gone, 

Sister Helen, 

But the lady's dark steed goes alone." 

" And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown. 

Little brother." 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven /) 

" Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill. 

Sister Helen, 

And weary sad they look by the hill." 

*' But he and I are sadder still, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Most sad of all, between Hell and Heavefi I) 



" See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, 

Sister Helen, 

And the flames are winning up apace ! " 

" Yet here they burn but for a space. 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven I) 



24 S/STER HELEN. 

"Ah ! what white thing at the door has cross'd, 

Sister Helen? 

Ah ! what is this that sighs in the frost?" 

" A soul that's lost as mine is lost, 

Little brother ! " 
( O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven /) 



25 



STRATTON WATER. 

" O HAVE you seen the Stratton flood 
That's great with rain to-day? 

It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands, 
Full of the new-mown hay. 

'' I led your hounds to Hutton bank 

To bathe at early morn : 
They got their bath by Borrowbrake 

Above the standing corn." 

Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands 
Looked up the western lea ; 

The rook was grieving on her nest. 
The flood was round her tree. 

Over the castle-wall Lord Sands 
Looked down the eastern hill : 

The stakes swam free among the boatSj 
The flood was risin2r still. 



26 STRATTON WATER. 

" What's yonder far below that lies 

So white against the slope?" 
" O it's a sail o' your bonny barks 

The waters have washed up." 

*' But I have never a sail so white, 
And the water's not yet there." 

" O it's the swans o' your bonny lake 
The rising flood doth scare." 

" The swans they would not hold so still, 

So high they would not win." 
" O it's Joyce my wife has spread her smock 

And fears to fetch it in." 

" Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans. 

Nor aught that you can say ; 
For tliougli your wife might leave her smock, 

Herself she'd bring away." 

Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair. 

The court, and yard, and all ; 
The kine were in the byre tliat day, 

The nasrs were in the stall. 



STRATTON WATER. 27 

Lord Sands has won the weltering slope 

Whereon the white shape lay : 
The clouds were still above the hill, 

And the shape was still as they. 

Oh pleasant is the gaze of life 

And sad is death's blind head ; 
But awful are the livini; eyes 

In the face of one thouglit dead ! 

" In God's name, Janet, is it me 

Thy ghost lias come to seek?" 
" Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands, — 

Be sure my ghost shall speak." 

A moment stood he as a stone, 

Then grovelled to his knee. 
" O Janet, O my love, my love. 

Rise up and come with me !" 
" O once before you bade me come. 

And it's here you have brought me ! 

" O many's the sweet word, Lord Sands, 

You've spoken oft to me ; 
But all that I have from you to-day 

Is the rain on my body. 



28 STRATTOJV WATER. 

" And maiiy's the good gift, Lord Sands, 
£ You've promised oft to me ; 

But the gift of yours I keep to-day 
Is the babe in my body. 

" O it's not in any earthly bed 
That first my babe I'll see ; 

For I have brought my body here 
That the flood may cover me." 

His face was close against her face, 

His hands of hers were fain : 
I 
I O her wet cheeks were hot with tears, 

a Her wet hands cold with rain. 



" They told me you were dead, Janet, — 

How could I guess the lie?" 
" They told me you were false, Lord Sands, 

What could I do but die? " 

" Now keep you well, my brother Giles, — 
Through you I deemed her dead ! 

As wan as your towers seem to-day. 
To-morrow they'll be red. 



STRATTON WATER. 29 

" Look down, look down, my false mother, 

That bade me not to grieve : 
You'll look up when our marriage fires 

Are Ht to-morrow eve. 

" O more than one and more than two 

The sorrow of this shall see : 
But it's to-morrow, love, for them, — 

To-day's for thee and me." 

He's drawn her face between his hands 

And her pale mouth to his : 
No bird that was so still that day 

Chirps sweeter than his kiss. 

The flood was creeping round their feet. 

" O Janet, come away ! 
The hall is warm for the marriage-rite, 

The bed for the birthday." 

" Nay, but I hear your mother cry, 

* Go bring this bride to bed ! 
And would she christen her babe unborn 

So wet she comes to wed? ' 



30 STRATTON WATER. 

" I'll be your wife to cross the door 
And meet your mother's e'e. 

We plighted troth to wed i' the kirk, 
And it's there you'll wed with me." 

He's ta'en her by the short girdle 
And by the dripping sleeve : 

" Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest, — 
You'll ask of him no leave. 

" O it's one half-hour to reach the kirk 
And one for the marriage-rite ; 

And kirk and castle and castle-lands 
Shall be our babe's to-night." 

"The flood's in the kirkyard, Lord Sands, 

And round the belfry-stair." 
" I bade you fetch the priest," he said, 

" Myself shall bring him there. 

" It's for the lilt of wedding bells 

We'll have the hail to pour, 
And for the clink of bridle-reins 

The ])lashing of the oar." 



STRATTON WATER. 31 

Beneath them on the nether hill 

A boat was floathig wide : 
Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars 

And rowed to the hill-side. 

He's wrapped her in a green mantle 

And set her softly in ; 
Her hair was wet upon her face, 

Her face was grey and thin ; 
And '' Oh ! " said she, "lie still, my babe. 

It's out you must not win ! " 

But woe's my heart for Father John 

As hard as he might pray, 
There seemed no help but Noah's ark 

Or Jonah's fish that day. 

The first strokes that the oars struck 

Were over the broad leas ; 
The next stroke that the oars struck 

They pushed beneath the trees ; 

The last stroke that the oars struck, 

The good boat's head was met, 
And there the gate of the kirkyard 

Stood like a ferry-fjate. 



i 

1 



32 STRATTON WATER. 

He's set his hand upon the bar 

And lightly leaped within : 
He's lifted her to his left shoulder, 

Her knees beside his chin. 

The graves lay deep beneath the flood 

Under the rain alone ; 
And when the foot-stone made him slip, 

He held by the head-stone. 

The empty boat thrawed i' the wind. 

Against the postern tied. 
" Hold still, you've brought my love with me. 

You shall take back my bride." 

But woe's my heart for Father John 
And the saints he clamored to ! 

There's never a saint but Christopher 
Might hale such buttocks through ! 

And " Oh ! " she said " men's shoulders, 

I well had thought to wend, 
And well to travel with a priest, 

But not to have cared or ken'd. 



STRATTQN WATER. ^33 

"And oh ! " she said, "it's well this way 

That I thought to have fared, — 
Not to have lighted at the kirk 

But stopped at the kirkyard. 

" For it's oh and oh I prayed to God, 

Whose rest I hoped to win, 
That when to-night at your board-head 

You'd bid the feast begin, 
This water past your window-sill 

Might bear my body in." 

Now make the white bed warm and soft 

And greet the merry morn. 
The night the mother should have died, 

The young son shall be born. 



34 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

" Who rules these lands ? " the Pilgrim said. 

'^Stranger, Queen Blanchelys." 
*' And who has thus harried them? " he said. 

" It was the Duke Luke did this : 
God's ban be his ! " 

The Pilgrim said : " Where is your house ? 

I'll rest there, with your will." 
" You've but to climb these blackened boughs 

And you'll see it over the hill, 
For it burns still." 

"Which road, to seek your Queen?" said he. 

" Nay, nay, but with some wound 
You'll fly back hither, it may be, 

And by your blood i' the ground 
My place be found." 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 35 

" Friend, stay in peace. God keep your head, 

And mine where I will go ; 
For He is here and there," he said. 

He passed the hill-side, slow, 
And stood below. 



The Queen sat idle by her loom : 

She heard the arras stir. 
And looked up sadly : through the room 

The sweetness sickened her 
Of musk and myrrh. 

Her women, standing two and two. 
In silence combed the fleece. 

The Pilgrim said, " Peace be with you. 
Lady; " and bent his knees. 
She answered, " Peace." 

Her eyes were like the wave within ; 

Like water-reeds the poise 
Of her soft body, dainty thin ; 

And like the water's noise 
Her plaintive voice. 



36 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

For him, the stream had never well'd 

In desert tracts malign 
So sweet ; nor had he ever felt 

So faint in the sunshine 
Of Palestine. 



Right so, he knew that he saw weep 
Each night through every dream 

The Queen's own face, confused in sleep 
With visages supreme 
Not known to him. 

" Lady," he said, '' your lands lie burnt 

And waste : to meet your foe 
All fear : this I have seen and learnt. 

Say that it shall be so. 
And I will go." 

She gazed at him. " Your cause is just, 

For I have heard the same : " 
He said : '' God's strength shall be my trust. 

Fall it to good or grame, 
Tis in His name." 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 37 

"Sir, you are thanked. My cause is dead. 

Why should you toil to break 
A grave, and fall therein?" she said. 

He did riot pause but spake : 
" For my vow's sake." 

"Can such vows be. Sir — to God's ear, 

Not to God's will ? " " My vow 
Remains : God heard me there as here," 

He said with reverent brow, 
" Both then and novV." 



They gazed together, he and she, 

The minute while he spoke ; 
And when he ceased, she suddenly 

Looked round upon her folk 
As though she woke. 

" Fight, Sir," she said ; " my prayers in pain 

Shall be your fellowship." 
He whispered one among her train, — 

" To-morrow bid her keep 
This staff and scrip." 



38 THE STAFF AATD SCRIP. 

She sent him a sharp sword, whose belt 

Around his body there 
As sweet as her own arms he felt. 

He kissed its blade, all bare. 
Instead of her. 



She sent him a green banner wrought 

With one white lily stem, 
To bind his lance with when he fought. 

He writ upon the same 

And kissed her name. 

She sent him a white shield, whereon 
She bade that he should trace 

His will. He blent fair hues that shone, 
And in a golden space 

He kissed her face. 

Born of the day that died, that eve 

Now dying sank to rest ; 
As he, in likewise taking leave. 

Once with a heaving breast 
Looked to the west. 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 39 

And there the sunset skies unseal'd, 

Like lands he never knew, 
Beyond to-morrow's battle-field 

Lay open out of view 
To ride into. 

Next day till dark the women pray'd : 
• Nor any might know there 
How the fight went : the Queen has bade 
That there do come to her 
No messen«:er. 



The Queen is pale, her maidens ail ; 

And to the organ-tones 
They sing but faintly, who sang well 

The matin-orisons, 

The lauds and nones. 

Lo, Father, is thine ear inclin'd, 
And hath thine angel pass'd? 

For these thy watchers now are Wind 
With vigil, and at last 
Dizzy with fast. 



40 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

Weak now to them the voice o' the priest 

As any trance affords ; 
And when each anthem failed and ceas'd, 

It seemed that the last chords 
Still sansf the words. 



''Oh what is the liglit that shines so red? 

'Tis long since the sun set;" 
Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid : 

" 'Twas dim but now, and yet 
The light is great." 

Quoth the other : " 'Tis our sight is dazed 

That we see flame i' the air." 
But the Queen held her brows and gazed, 

And said, " It is the glare 
Of torches there." 

" Oh what are the sounds that rise and spread ? 

All day it was so still ; " 
Quoth the youngest to the eldest maid : 

" Unto the furthest hill 
The air they fill." 



t 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 41 

Quoth the other : " 'Tis our sense is blurr'd 

With all the chants gone by." 
But the Queen held her breath and heard, 

And said, " It is the cry 
Of Victory." 

The first of all the rout was sound, 

The next were dust and flame, 
And then the horses shook the ground : 

And in the thick of them 
A still band came. 



" Oh what do ye bring out of the fight, 
. Thus hid beneath these boughs? " 
"Thy conquering guest returns to-night. 
And yet shall not carouse, 

Queen, in thy house." I 

I 

"Uncover ye his face," she said. ! 

" O changed in little space ! " 
She cried, " O pale that was so red ! 

O God, O God of grace ! 

Cover his face." i 



42 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

His sword was broken in his hand 
Where he had kissed the blade. 

" O soft steel that could not withstand ! 
O my hard heart unstayed, 

That prayed and prayed ! " 

His bloodied banner crossed his mouth 
Where he had kissed her name. 

" O east, and west, and north, and south, 
Fair flew my web, for shame, 
To guide Death's aim ! " 



The tints were shredded from his shield 
Where he had kissed her face. 

" Oh, of all the gifts that I could yield. 
Death only keeps its place, 
My gift and grace ! " 

Then stepped a damsel to her side. 
And spoke, and needs must weep : 

" For his sake, lady, if he died, 
He prayed of thee to keep 
This staff and scrip." 



THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 43 

That night they hung above her bed, 

Till morning wet with tears. 
Year after year above her head 

Her bed his token wears, 
Five years, ten years. 

That night the passion of her grief 

Shook them as there they hung. 
Each year the wind that shed the leaf 

Shook them and in its tongue 
A message flung. 

And once she woke with a clear mind 

That letters writ to calm 
Her soul lay in the scrip ; to find 

Only a torpid balm 

And dust of palm. 

They shook far off with palace sport 

When joust and dance were rife ; 
And the hunt shook them from the court ; 

For hers, in peace or strife, 
Was a Queen's life. 



44 THE STAFF AND SCRIP. 

A Queen's death : as now they shake 
To guests in chapel dim, — 

Hung where she sleeps, not seen to wake, 
(Carved lovely white and slim), 
With them by him. 

Stand up to-day, still armed, with her, 
Good knight, before His brow 

Who then as now was here and there, 
Who had in mind thy vow 
Then even as now. 

The lists are set in Heaven to-day. 

The bright pavilions shine ; 
Fair hangs thy shield, and none gainsay ; 

The trumpets sound in sign 
That she is thine. 



Not tithed witli days' and years' decease 
He pays thy wage He owed, 

But with imperishable peace 
Here in His own abode, 
Thy jealous God. 



.•A 



45 



AVE. 

Mother of the Fair Delight, 
Thou handmaid perfect in God's sight, 
Now sitting fourth beside the Three 
Thyself a woman-Trinity, — 
Being a daughter borne to God, 
Mother of Christ from stall to rood, 
And wife unto the Holy Ghost : — 
Oh when our need is uttermost. 
Think that to such as death may strike 
Thou once wert sister sisterlike 1 
Thou headstone of humanity, 
Groundstone of the great ^lystery, 
Fashioned like us, yet more than we ! 

I 

Mind'st thou not (when June's heavy breath i 



46 AVE, 

Warmed the long days in Nazareth,) 

That eve thou didst go forth to give 

Thy flowers some drink that they might Hve 

One fliint night more amid the sands? 

Far off the trees were as pale wands 

Against the fervid sky : the sea 

Sighed further off eternally 

As human sorrow sighs in sleep. 

Then suddenly the awe grew deep, 

As of a day to which all days 

Were footsteps in God's secret ways : 

Until a folding sense, like prayer, 

Which is, as God is, everywhere. 

Gathered about thee ; and a voice 

Spake to thee without any noise. 

Being of the silence : — " Hail," it said, 

" Thou that art highly favored ; 

The Lord is with thee here and now ; 

Blessed among all women thou." 

Ah ! knew'st thou of the end, when first 
That Babe was on thy bosom nurs'd? — 
Or when He tottered round thy knee 
Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee ? — 



AVE. 47 

And through His boyhood, year by year 

« 
Eating with him the Passover, 

Didst thou discern confusedly 

That hoher sacrament, when He, 

The bitter cup about to quaff, 

Should break the bread and eat thereof? — 

Or came not yet the knowledge, even 

Till some day forecast in Heaven 

His feet passed through thy door to press 

Upon His Father's business? — 

Or still was God's high secret kept ? 

Nay, but I think the whisper crept 
Like growth through childhood. Work and play, 
Things common to the course of day, 
Awed thee witli meanings unfulfiU'd ; 
And all through girlhood, something still'd 
Thy senses like the birth of light. 
When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night 
Or washed thy garments in the stream ; 
To whose white bed had come the dream 
That He was thine and thou wast His 
Who feeds among the field-lilies. 
O solemn shadow of the end 



48 AF£. 

In that wise spirit long contain'd ! 
O awful end ! and those unsaid 
Long years when It was Finished ! 

Mind'st thou not (when the twihght gone 
Left darkness in the house of John,) 
Between the naked window-bars 
That spacious vigil of the stars ? — 
For thou, a watcher even as they, 
Wouldst rise from where throughout the day 
Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor ; 
And, finding the fixed terms endure 
Of day and night which never brought 
Sounds of His coming chariot, 
Wouldst lift through cloud- waste unexplor'd 
Those eyes which said, " How long, O Lord? " 
Then that disciple whom He loved. 
Well heeding, haply would be moved 
To ask thy blessing in His name ; 
And that one thought in both, the same 
Though silent, then would clasp ye round 
To weep together, —tears long bound. 
Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. 
Yet, "Surely I come quickly," — so 



AVE. 49 



He said, from life and death gone home. 
Amen : even so, Lord Jesus, come ! 

But oh ! what human tongue can speak 
That day when Michael came i to break 
From the tir'd spirit, like a veil, 
Its covenant with Gabriel 
Endured at length unto the end ? 
What human thought can apprehend 
That mystery of motherhood 
When thy Beloved at length renew'd 
The sweet communion served, — 
His left hand underneath thine head 
And His right hand embracing thee ? — 
Lo ! He was thine, and this is He ! 

Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, 
That lets me see her standing up 
Where the light of the Throne is bright ? 
Unto the left, unto the right, 
The cherubim, succinct, conjoint, 
Float inward to a golden point, 

1 A Church legend of the Blessed Virgin's death. 



so AVE. 

And from between the seraphim 

The glory issues for a hymn. : 

O Mary Mother, be not loth : 

To hsten, — thou whom the stars clothe, 

Who seest and mayst not be seen ! 

Hear us at last, O Mary Queen ! 

Into our shadow bend thy face, j 

i 
Bowing thee from the secret place, '[ 

O Mary Virgin, full of grace ! 



51 



DANTE AT VERONA. 

" Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares 

Upon another's l:>rea(l, — how steep his path 
Who Ireadeth np nnd down another's stairs." 

(Div. Com. Panic/, xvii.) 
" Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice." 

(Div. Com. Ptirg. xxx.) 

Of Florence and of Beatrice 
Servant and singer from of old, 
O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd 

The knell that gave his Lady peace ; 
And now in manhood flew the dart 
Wherewith his City i)ierced his heart. 

Yet if his Lady's home above 

Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul ; 

And if his City held control 
To cast the body forth to rove, 

The soul could soar from earth's vain thronj 

And Heaven and Hell fulfill the sonij. 



52 DANTE AT VERONA. 

Follow his feet's appointed way ; — 
But little light we find that clears 
The darkness of the exiled years. 

Follow his spirit's journey : — nay, 

What fires are blent, what winds are blown 
On paths his feet may tread alone ? 

Yet of the twofold life he led 

In chainless thought and fettered will 
i Some glimpses reach us, — somewhat still 

Of the steep stairs and bitter bread, — 
Of the soul's quest whose stern avow 
For years had made him haggard now. 

Alas ! the Sacred Song whereto 

Both heaven and earth had set their hand 
Not only at Fame's gate did stand 
Knocking to claim the passage through, 
I But toiled to ope that heavier door 

■ Which Florence shut for evermore. 

\ 

j Shall not his birth's baptismal Town 

\ One last high presage yet fulfil, 

I And at that front in Florence still 



DANTE AT VERONA. 53 

His forehead take the laurel-crown ? 
O God ! or shall dead souls deny 
The undying soul its prophecy? 

Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot 
The bitter words he spoke that day 
When for some great charge far away 

Her rulers his acceptance sought. 

" And if I go, who stays ? " — so rose 
His scorn : — " and if I stay, who goes ? " 

" Lo ! thou art gone now, and we stay : " 
(The curled lips mutter) : " and no star 
Is from thy mortal path so far 

As streets where childhood knew the way. 
To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, 
But thine own house they come not in." 

Therefore, the loftier rose the song 

To touch the secret things of God, 

The deeper pierced the hate that trod 
On base men's track who wrought the wrong ; 

Till the soul's effluence came to be 

Its own exceeding agony. 



I 54 DANTE AT VERONA. 

\ Arriving only to depart, 

\ 

From court to court, from land to land, 

Like flame within the naked hand 
\ His body bore his burning heart 

\ That still on Florence strove to bring 

God's fire for a burnt offering. 

Even such was Dante's mood, when now. 
Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, 
He dwelt at yet another court, 

There where Verona's knee did bow 
And her voice hailed with all acclaim 
Can Grande della Scala's name. 

As that lord's kingly guest awhile 

His life we follow ; through the days 
Which walked in exile's barren ways, — 

The nights which still beneath one smile 

Heard through all spheres one song increase, 
" Even I, even I am Beatrice." 

At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, 
Due reverence did his steps attend ; 
The ushers on his path would bend 



DANTE AT VERONA. 55 

At ingoing as at going out ; 

The penmen waited on his call 

At council-board, the grooms in hall. 

And pages hushed their laughter down, 
And gay squires stilled the merry stir, 
When he passed up the dais-chamber 

With set brows lordlier than a frown ; 
And tire-maids hidden among these 
Drew close their loosened bodices. 

Perhaps the priests, (exact to span 
All God's circumference,) if at whiles 
They found him wandering in their aisles. 

Grudged ghostly greeting to the man 
By whom, though not of ghostly guild, 
With Heaven and Hell men's hearts were fill'd. 

And the court poets (he, forsooth, 

A whole world's poet strayed to court !) 
Had for his scorn their hate's retort. 

He'd meet them flushed with easy youth. 
Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies 
They vexed him in the ears and eyes. 



56 



DANTE AT VERONA. 



But at this court, peace still must wrench 
Her chaplet from the teeth of war : 
By day they held high watch afar, 

At night they cried across the trench ; 
And still, in Dante's path, the fierce 
Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. 

But vain seemed all the strength to him. 
As golden convoys sunk at sea 
Whose wealth might root out penury : 

Because it was not, limb with limb, 

Knit like his heart strings round the wall 
Of Florence, that ill pride might fall. 

Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust 

Cleared from the sundered press of knights 
Ere yet again it swoops and smites. 

He almost deemed his longing must 
Find force to wield that multitude 
And hurl that strength the way he would. 



How should he move them, — fame and gain 
On all hands calling them at strife? 
He still might find but his one life 



i 

DANTE AT VERONA. 57 \ 



To give, by Florence counted vain ; 

One heart the false hearts made her doubt, 
One voice she heard once and cast out. 

Oh ! if his Florence could but come, 

A lily-scei^tred damsel fair, 

As her own Giotto painted her 
On many shields and gates at home, — 

A lady crowned, at a soft pace 

Riding the lists round to the dais : 

Till where Can Grande rules the lists. 

As young as Truth, as calm as Force, 

She draws her rein now, while her horse 
Bows at the turn of the white wrists ; 

And when each knight within his stall 

Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all : 

All the foul tale, — truth sworn untrue | 

And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? i 

Great God ! and must she not prevail [ 

To fire them ere they heard it through, — \ 

And hand achieve ere heart could rest \ 

That high adventure of her quest ? f 

I 



X 



5^ 



DANTE AT VERONA. 



How would his Florence lead them forth, 
Her bridle ringing as she went ; 
And at the last within her tent, 

'Neath golden lilies worship-worth. 

How queenly would she bend the while 
And thank the victors with her smile ! 



Also her lips should turn his way 

And murmur : " O thou tried and true, 
^^^'th >viion"i I v/ept the long years through ! 

What shall it profit if I say, 

Thee I remember? Nay, through thee 
All ao^es shall remember me." 



Peace, Dante, peace ! The task is long, 
The time wears short to compass it. 
Within thine heart such hopes may flit 

And find a voice in deathless song : 
But lo ! as children of man's earth. 
Those hopes are dead before their birth. 



Fame tells us that Verona's court 

Was a fair place. The feet might still 
Wander for ever at their will 



" " ----- - . 






DANTE AT VERONA. 


59 




In many ways of sweet resort ; 






r . ' And still in many a heart around 






1 The Poet's name due honor found. 






fl Watch we his steps. He comes upon 








The women at their palm-playing. 
The conduits round the gardens sing 
And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, 
Where wearied damsels rest and hold 
Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. 

One of whom, knowing well that he, 

By some found stern, was mild with them, 
Would run and pluck his garment's hem. 

Saying, "Messer Dante, pardon me," — 
Praying that they might hear the song 
Which first of all he made, when young. 

** Donne che avete " ^ . . . Thereunto 
Thus would he murmur, having first 
Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd 



* " Donne che avete intelletto d'amore : " — the f.rst canzone 
of the " Vita Nuova." 



6o 



DANTE AT VERONA. 



His hand against her side : a few 

Sweet words, and scarcely those, lialf said : 
Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head. 

For then the voice said in his heart, 

" Even I, even I am Beatrice ; " 

And his whole life would yearn to cease : 
Till having reached his room, apart 

Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor, 

He drew the arras round his door. 

At such times, Dante, thou hast set 

Thy forehead to the painted pane 

Full oft, I know ; and if the rain 
Smote it outside, her fingers met 

Thy brow : and if the sun fell there. 

Her breath was on thy face and hair. 



Then, weeping, I think certainly 

Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne, — 

Within another room of thine 
Where now thy body may not be 

But where in thought thou still remain'st, 

A window often wept against : 



DANTE AT VERONA. 6i 

The window thou, a youth, liast sought, 
Flushed in the Hmpid eventime, 
Ending with dayh'ght the day's rhyme 

Of her ; where oftenwhiles her thought 

Held thee — the lamp untrimmed to write — 
In joy through the blue lapse of night. 

At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, 

Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport 
No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, 

Within the palace and without ; 
Where music, set to madrigals, 
Loitered all day through groves and halls. 

Because Can Grande of his life 
Had not had six-and-twenty years 
As yet. And when the chroniclers 

Tell you of that Vicenza strife 

And of strifes elsewhere, — you must not 
Conceive for church-sooth he had got 

Just nothing in his wits but war : 

Though doubtless 'twas the young man's joy 
(Grown with his growth from a mere boy.) 



62 DANTE AT VERONA, 

To mark his " Viva Cane ! " scare 
The foe's shut front, till it would reel 
All blind with shaken points of steel. 



But there were places — held too sweet 
For eyes that held not the due veil 
Of lashes and clear lids — as well 

In favor as his saddle-seat : 

Breath of low speech he scorned not there 
Nor light cool fingers in his hair. 



Yet if the child whom the sire's plan 
Made free of a deep treasure-chest 
Scoff'd it with ill-conditioned jest, — 

We may be sure too that the man 
Was not mere thews, nor all content 
With lewdness swathed in sentiment. 



So you may read and mar\'el not 
That such a man as 1 )ante — one 
Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, 

Had drawn his robe round him and thought — 



DANTE AT VERONA. 63 

Now at the same guest-table far'd 
Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard. ^ 

Through leaves and trellis-work the sun 
Left the wine cool within the glass, — 
They feasting where no sun could pass : 

And when the women, all as one. 

Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, 
It was a comely thing we know. 

But Dante recked not of the wine : 
Whether the women stayed or went. 
His visage held one stern intent : 

And when the music had its sign 

To breath upon them for more ease, 
Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. 

And as he spared not to rebuke 

The mirth, so oft in council he 

To bitter truth bore testimony : 
And when the crafty balance shook 

Well poised to make the wrong prevail, 

Then Dante's hand would turn the scale. 

1 Uguccione della Faggiuola, Dante's former protector, was 
now his fellow-guest at Verona. 



64 DANTE AT VERONA. 

And if some envoy from afar 

Sailed to Verona's sovereign port 
For aid or peace, and all the court 

Fawned on its lord, " the Mars of war. 
Sole arbiter of hfe and death," — 
Be sure that Dante saved his breath. 

And Can La Scala marked askance 

These things, accepting them for shame 
And scorn, till Dante's guestship came 

To be a peevish sufferance : 

His host sought ways to make his days 
Hateful; and such have many ways. 

There was a Jester, a foul lout 

Whom the court loved for graceless arts ; 

Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts 
Of speech ; a ribald mouth to shout 

In Folly's horny tympanum 

Such things as make the wise man dumb. 

Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so. 
One day when Dante felt perplex'd 
If any day that could come next 



DANTE AT VERONA. 65 

Were worth the waiting for or no, 
And mute he sat amid their din, — 
Can Grande called the Jester in. 

Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth. 
Lords mouth'd approval ; ladies kept 
Twittering with clustered heads, except 

Some few that took their trains by stealth 
And went. Can Grande shook his hair 
And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. 

Then, facing on his guest he cried, — 

" Say, Messer Dante, how it is 

I get out of a clown like this 
More than your wisdom can provide." 

And Dante : '' 'Tis man's ancient whim 

That still his like seems good to him." 

Also a tale is told, how once. 

At clearing tables after meat, 

Piled for a jest at Dante's feet 
Were found the dinner's well-picked bones ; 

So laid, to please the banquet's lord, 

By one who crouched beneath the board. 



66 DANTE AT VERONA. 

Then smiled Can Grande to the rest : — 
" Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed 
Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed ! " 

" Fair host of mine," replied the guest, 
So many bones you'd not descry 
If so it chanced the dog were I." ^ 

But wherefore should we turn the grout 
In a drained cup, or be at strife 
From the worn garment of a life 

To rip the twisted ravel out? 

Good needs expounding ; but of ill 
Each hath enoudi to sruess his fill. 



They named him Justicer-at-Law : 
Each month to bear the tale in mind 
Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd 

And of the load an ox might draw ; 
To cavil in the weight of bread 
And to see purse-thieves gibbeted. 



^ " Messere, vol non vedi-este tant ^ossa se cane io fossil The 
point of the reproach is difficult to render, depending as it does 
on the literal meaning of the name Cane. 



DANTE AT VERONA. 67 

And when his spirit wove the spell 

(From under even to over-noon 

In converse with itself alone,) 
As high as Heaven, as low as Hell, — 

He would be summoned and must go : 

For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? 

Therefore the bread he had to eat 

Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares ; 
And the rush-strown accustomed stairs 

Each day were steeper to his feet ; 
And when the night-vigil was done. 
His brows would ache to feel the sun. 

Nevertheless, when from his kin 
There came the tidings how at last 
In Florence a decree was pass'd 

Whereby all banished folk might win 
Free pardon, so a fine were paid 
And act of public penance made, — 

This Dante writ in answer thus, 

Words such as these : " That clearly they 
In Florence must not have to say, — 



t~ 



68 DANTE AT VERONA. 

The man abode aloof from us 

Nigh fifteen years, yet lastly skulk'd 
Hither to candleshrift and mulct. 

" That he was one the Heavens forbid 
To traffic in God's justice sold 
By market-weight of earthly gold, 

Or to bow down over the lid 
Of steaming censers, and so be 
Made clean of manhood's obloquy. 

*'That since no gate led, by God's will, 
To Florence, but the one whereat 
The priests and money-changers sat, 

He still would wander ; for that still, 
Even through the body's prison-bars. 
His soul possessed the sun and stars.'* 

Such were his words. It is indeed 
For ever well our singers should 
Utter good words and know them good 

Not through song only ; with close heed 
Lest, having spent for the work's sake 
Six days, the man be left to make. 



I 

I 

DANTE AT VERONA. 69 \ 

\ 

Months o'er Verona, till the feast j 

Was come for Florence the Free Town : 

And at the shrine of Baptist John 
The exiles, girt with many a priest 

And carrying candles as they went, 

Were held to mercy of the saint. 

On the high seats in sober state, — 

Gold neck-chains range o'er range below 
Gold screen-work where the lilies grow, — 

The Heads of the Republic sate. 
Marking the humbled face go by 
Each one of his house-enemy. 

And as each proscript rose and stood 

From kneeling in the ashen dust 

On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust 
A beard into the velvet hood 

Of his front colleague's gown, to see 

The cinders stuck in the bare knee. 

Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed, 
Rinucci passed, each in his place ; 
But not an Alighieri's face 



-JO DANTE AT VERONA. 

Went by that day from first to last 
In the Republic's triumph ; nor 
A foot came home to Dante's door. 

(Respublica — a public thing : 
A shameful shameless prostitute, 
Whose lust with one lord may not suit, 

So takes by turns its revelling 

A night with each, till each at morn 
Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, 

And leaves her, cursing her. If she, 

Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid 
In scent under a silver lid, 

To drench his open throat with — he 
Once hard asleep ; and thrust him not 
At dawn beneath the stairs to rot. 

Such this Republic ! — not the Maid 

He yearned for ; she who yet should stand 
With Heaven's accepted hand in hand. 

Invulnerable and unbetray'd : 

To whom, even as to God, should be 
Obeisance one with Liberty.) 



DANTE AT VERONA. 71 

Years filled out their twelve moons, and ceased 

One in another ; and alway 

There were the whole twelve hours each day 
And each night as the years increased ; 

And rising moon and setting sun 

Beheld that Dante's work was done. 

What of his work for Florence ? Well 
It was, he knew, and well must be. 
Yet evermore her hate's decree 

Dwelt in his thought intolerable : — 
His body to be burned,^ — his soul 
To beat its wings at hope's vain goal. 

What of his work for Beatrice ? 

Now well-nigh was the third song writ, — 

The stars a third time sealing it 
With sudden music of pure peace : 

For echoing thrice the threefold song. 

The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.- 

^ Such was the last sentence passed by Florence against Dante, 
as a recalcitrant exile. 

2 " E quindi uscimmo a riveder le sielle." — Inferno. 

" Puro e disposto a salire alle sielleP — Purgatorio. 

" L'amor che muove il sole e 1' altre stcUc.'''' — Paradiso. 



72 DANTE AT VERONA. 

Each hour, as then the Vision pass'd, 

He heard the utter harmony 

Of the nine trembling spheres, till she 
Bowed her eyes towards him in the last, 

So that all ended with her eyes, 

Hell, Purgatory, Paradise. 

" It is my trust, as the years fall, 
To write more worthily of her 
Who now, being made God's minister. 

Looks on His visage and knows all." 
Such was the hope that love dar'd blend 
With griefs slow fires, to make an end 

Of the " New Life," his youth's dear book : 
Adding thereunto : '^ In such trust 
I labor, and believe I must 

Accomplish this which my soul took 
In charge, if God, my Lord and hers, 
Leave my life with me a few years." 

The trust which he had borne in youth 
Was all at length accomplished. He 
At length had written worthily — 



DANTE AT VERONA. 73 

Yea even of her ; no rhymes uncouth 

'Tvvixt tongue and tongue ; but by God's aid 
The first words Italy had said. 

Ah ! haply now the heavenly guide 

Was not the last form seen by him : 

But there that Beatrice stood slim 
And bowed in passing at his side, 

For whom in youth his heart made moan 

Then when the city sat alone.i 

Clearly herself; the same whom he 
Met, not past girlhood, in the street, 
Low-bosomed and with hidden feet ; 

And then as woman perfectly. 

In years that followed, many an once, — 
And now at last among the suns 

In that high vision. But indeed 
It may be memory might recall 
Last to him then the first of all, — 



' ^^Quomodo sedetsola civitas ! " — The words quoted by Dante 
in the *' Vita Nuova," when he speaks of the death of Beatrice. i 



74 DANTE AT VERONA. 

The child his boyhood bore in heed 

Nine years. At length the voice brought peace, — 
" Even I, even I am Beatrice." 

All this, being there, we had not seen. 

Seen only was the shadow wrought 

On the strong features bound in thought ; 
The vagueness gaining gait and mien ; 

The white streaks gathered clear to view 

In the burnt beard the women knew. 

For a tale tells that on his track, 

As through Verona's streets he went, 

This saying certain women sent : — 
" Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back 

At will ! Behold him, how Hell's reek 

Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek." 

"Whereat" (Boccaccio's words) "he smil'd 

For pride in fame." It might be so : 

Nevertheless we cannot know 
If haply he were not beguil'd 

To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell 

If he indeed were back from Hell. 



DANTE AT VERONA. 75 

So the day came, after a space, 
When Dante felt assured that there 
The sunshine must lie sicklier 

Even than in any other place, 

Save only Florence. When that day 
Had come, he rose and went his way. 

He went and turned out. From his shoes 

It may be that he shook the dust, 

As every righteous dealer must 
Once and again ere life can close : 

And unaccomplished destiny 

Struck cold his forehead, it may be. 

No book keeps record how the Prince 
Sunned himself out of Dante's reach. 
Nor how the Jester stank in speech : 

While courtiers, used to cringe and wince, 
Poets and harlots, all the throng. 
Let loose their scandal and their song. 

No book keeps record if the seat 

Which Dante held at his host's board 
Were sat in next by clerk or lord, — 



76 DANTE AT VERONA. 

If leman lolled with dainty feet 
At ease, or hostage brooded there, 
Or priest lacked silence for his prayer. 

Eat and wash hands, Can Grande ; — scarce 
We know their deeds now : hands which fed 
Our Dante with that bitter bread ; 

And thou the watch-dog of those stairs 
Which, of all paths his feet knew well, 
Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell. 



\ 



t 



^ 



77 



TROY TOWN. 

Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen, 

( O Troy Tow7i /) 
Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, 
The sun and moon of the heart's desire 
All Love's lordship lay between. 
( O Trofs down. 
Tall Trofs on fire /) 

Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, 
( O Troy Town /) 

Saying, " A little gift is mine, 

A litde gift for a heart's desire. 

Hear me speak and make me a sign ! 
{O Troy's down, 
Tall Troy's 071 fire /) 



78 TROY TOWN. 

" Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; 

( O Ti'oy Town /) 
See it here as I hold it up, — 
Shaped it is to the heart's desire. 
Fit to fill when the gods would sup. 
( O Trofs down, 
Tall Trofs on fire/) 



*' It was moulded like my breast ; 
( O Troy Town /) 

He that sees it may not rest, 

Rest at all for his heart's desire. 

O give ear to my heart's behest ! 
( O Trofs down, 
Tall Troy's on fire /) 

'' See my breast, how like it is ; 
I ( O Troy Toivn /) 

I See it bare for the air to kiss ! 

\ Is the cup to thy heart's desire ? 

O for the breast, O" make it his ! 
j ( O Trofs down, 

* Tall Trofs on fire /) 



TROV TOIVAT. 79 

" Yea, for my bosom here I sue ; 

( O Troy Tozun /) 
Thou must give it where 'tis due, 
Give it there to the heart's desire. 
Whom do I give my bosom to? 

((9 Trofs down J 

Tall Trofs on fire /) 

" Each twin breast is an apple sweet. 

( O Troy Town /) 
Once an apple stirred the beat 
Of thy heart with the heart's desire : — 
Say, who brought it then to thy feet? 

(6> Troy's down, 

Tall Trofs on fire !^ 

" They that claimed it then were three : 

( O Troy Town /) 
For thy sake two hearts did he 
Make forlorn of the heart's desire. 
Do for him as he did for thee ! 

((9 Troy's down, 

Tall Trofs on fire /) 



8o TROY town: 

" Mine are apples grown to the south, 

( O Troy Town /) 
Grown to taste in the days of drouth, 
Taste and waste to the heart's desire : 
Mine are apples meet for his mouth." 
{^O Troy's down, 
Tall Troy's on fire /) 

Venus looked on Helen's gift, 
( O Troy Town /) 
Looked and smiled with subtle drift, 
Saw the work of her heart's desire : — 
" There thou kneel'st for Love to lift ! 
( O Troy's doivn, 
Tall Troys on fire /) 



Venus looked in Helen's face, 
( O Troy Town /) 
Knew far off an hour and place. 
And fire lit from the heart's desire ; 

8 

\ Laughed and said, " Thy gift hath grace ! " 



((9 Troy's down, 
Tall Troy's on fire /) 



TROY TOWN. 8i 

Cupid looked on Helen's breast, 

{O Troy Town!) 
Saw the heart within its nest, 
Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — 
Marked his arrow's burning crest. 

( O Trofs doiun, 

Tall Troy's on fire /) 

Cupid took another dart, 

((9 Troy Town!) 
Fledged it for another heart. 
Winged the shaft with the heart's desire, 
Drew the string and said, " Depart ! " 

{^O Troy's down, 

Tall Troy's on fire /) 

Paris turned upon his bed, 

( O Troy Town !) 
Turned upon his bed and said, 
Dead at heart with the heart's desire, — 
" Oh to clasp her golden head ! " 

( O Troy's down, 

Tall Troy's on fire /) 



82 



EDEN BOWER. 

It was Lilith the wife of Adam : 

{Sing Eden Bower /) 
Not a drop of her blood was human, 
But she was made like a soft sweet woman. 

Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden ; 

{Alas the hour /) 
She was the first that thence was driven ; 
With her was hell and with Eve was heaven. 

In the ear of the Snake said Lilith : — 

{Sing Eden Bower !^ 
" To thee I come when the rest is over ; 
A snake was I when thou wast my lover. 

" I was the fairest snake in Eden : 

{Alas the hour /) 
By the earth's will, new form and feature 
Made me a wife for the earth's new creature. 



J 



EDEN BOWER. 83 

\ " Take me thou as I come from Adam : 

\ {^S'uig Eden Bower I) 

I Once again shall my love subdue thee ; 

The past is past and I am come to thee. 

" O but Adam was thrall to Lilith ! 

{Alas the hour /) 
All the threads of my hair are golden, 
And there in a net his heart was holden. 

" O and Lilith was queen of Adam ! 

{Sing Eden Bower /) 
All the day and the night together 
My breath could shake his soul like a feather. 

" What great joys had Adam and Lilith ! — 

{Alas the hour /) 
Sweet close rings of the serpent's twining, 
As heart in heart lay sighing and pining. 

" What bright babes had Lilith and Adam ! — 
{Sing Eden Bower /) 

Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters. 

Glittering sons and radiant daughters. 



84 EDEN BOWER. 

" O thou God, the Lord God of Eden ! 

(^Alas the hour /) 
Say, was this fair body for no man. 
That of Adam's flesh thou mak'st him a woman? 

*' O thou Snake, the King-snake of Eden ! 

{Si'/ig Eden Bower /) I 

God's strong will our necks are under, ? 

But thou and I may cleave it in sunder. 

" Help, sweet Snake, sweet lover of Lilith ! 

{Ahis the hour /) : 

And let God learn how I loved and hated 
Man in the image of God created. \ 

\ 

" Help me once against Eve and Adam ! \ 

{Si7tg Eden Boiaer /) \ 

Help me once for this one endeavor, •, 

And then my love shall be thine for ever ! 2 



ii 



"Strong is God, the fell foe of Lihth : 
{Alas the hour /) 
Nought in heaven or earth may affright him ; 
But join thou with me and we will smite him. 



? 
I 

EDEN BOWER. 85 ' 



" Strong is God, the great God of Eden : 
i^Siiig Eden Bower /) 
Over all He made He hath power ; 
But lend me thou thy shape for an hour ! 

" Lend thy shape for the love of Lilith ! 

(^Alas the hour /) 
Look, my mouth and my cheek are ruddy, 
And thou art cold, and fire is my body. 

" Lend thy shape for the hate of Adam ! 
i^Sing Eden Bower /) 
That he may wail my joy that forsook him, 
And curse the day when the bride-sleep took him. 

" Lend thy shape for the shame of Eden ! 

{^Alas the hour !) 
Is not the foe-God weak as the foeman 
When love grows hate in the heart of a woman ? 

" Would'st thou know the heart's hope of Lilith ? 

i^Sing Eden Bower /) 
Then bring thou close thine head till it glisten 
Along my breast, and hp me and listen. 



86 - EDEN BOWER. 

" Am I sweet, O sweet Snake of Eden ? 

(A/as the hour !) 
Then ope thine ear to my warm mouth's cooing 
And learn what deed remains for our doing. 



" Thou didst hear when God said to Adam : — 

(Sing Eden Boiver !) 
* Of all this wealth I have made thee warden ; 
Thou'rt free to eat of the trees of the garden : 

" ' Only of one tree eat not in Eden ; 
(Alas the hour /) 
All save one I give to thy freewill, — 
The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.' 

" O my love, come nearer to Lilith ! 

(Sing Eden Bower /) 
In thy sweet folds bind me and bend me, 
And let me feel the shape thou shalt lend me ! 



" In thy shape I'll go back to Eden ; 
(Alas the hoicr /) 
In these coils that Tree will I grapple, 
And stretch this crowned head forth by the apple. 



EDEN BOVVER. 87 

" Lo, Eve bends to the breath of Lilith ! 
{^Sing Eden Boiver /) 
O how then shall my heart desire 
All her blood as food to its fire ! 

-: " Lo, Eve bends to the words of Lilith ! — 

{Alas the hour /) 
* Nay, this Tree's fruit, — why should ye hate it, 
Or Death be born the day that ye ate it ? 

" '■ Nay, but on that great day in Eden, 

{^Sing Eden Bower /) 
By the help that in this wise Tree is, 
God knows well ye shall be as He is.* 

" Then Eve shall eat and give unto Adam ; 
(^Aias the hour /) 
\ And then they both shall know they are naked, 

I And their hearts ache as my heart hath ached. 



" Aye, let them hide 'mid the trees of Eden, 

{Sing Eden Boiver /) 
As in the cool of the day in the garden 
God shall walk without pity or pardon. 



88 EDEN BOWER. 

" Hear, thou Eve, the man's heart in Adam ! 

{Alas the hour/) 
Of his brave words hark to the bravest : — 
'This the woman gave that thou gavest.' 

" Hear Eve speak, yea Hst to her, LiHth ! 
{Sing Eden Boiver /) 
Feast thine heart with words that shall sate it - 
* This the serpent gave and I ate it.' 

" O proud Eve, cling close to thine Adam, 

{Ahis the hour /) 
Driven forth as the beasts of his naming 
By the sword that for ever is flaming. 

" Know, thy path is known unto Lilith ! 

{Sing Eden Bower /) 
While the blithe birds sang at thy wedding, 
There her tears grew thorns for thy treading. 

" O my love, thou Love-snake of Eden ! 

{Alas the hour /) 
O to-day and the day to come after ! 
Loose me, love, — give breath to my laughter. 



EDEN BOWER. 89 

" O bright Snake, the Death-worm of Adam ! 

{^Sing Eden Bower /) 
Wreathe thy neck with my hair's bright tether, : 

And wear my gold and thy gold together ! I 

" On that day on the skirts of Eden, ;: 

{Alas the hour /) 
In thy shape shall I glide back to thee. 
And in my shape for an instant view thee. 

"But when thou'rt thou and Lilith is Lilith, \ 

\ 
(Si;ig Eden Bower /) j 

In what bliss past hearing or seeing j 

Shall each one drink of the other's being ! \ 

"With cries of ' Eve ! ' and ' Eden ! ' and 'Adam ! ' 

{A his the hotir /) 
How shall we mingle our love's caresses, 
I in thy coils, and thou in my tresses ! 

" With those names, ye echoes of Eden, 
{Sing Eden Bower /) 
Fire shall cry from my heart that burneth, — 
' Dust he is and to dust returneth ! ' 



90 EDEN BOWER. 

"Yet to-day, thou master of Lilith, — 
{Alas the hour /) 
Wrap me round in the form I'll borrow 
And let me tell thee of sweet to-morrow. 

'^ In the planted garden eastward in Eden, 

{Sing Eden Bowe?- /) 
Where the river goes forth to water the garden, 
The springs shall dry and the soil shall harden. 

" Yea, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, 

{Alas the hour /) 
None shall hear when the storm-wind whistles 
Through roses choked among thorns and thistles. 

" Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden, 

{Sing Eden Bo2uer /) 
Where God joined them and none miglit sever. 
The sword turns this way and that for ever. 



" What of Adam cast out of Eden ? 

{Alas the hour /) 
Lo ! with care like a shadow shaken, 
He tills the hard earth whence he was taken. 



EDEN BOWER. 91 

" What of Eve too, cast out of Eden ? 

{Sing Eden Bowci- /) 
Nay, but she, the bride of God's giving, 
Must yet be mother of all men living. 

" Lo, God's grace, by the grace of Lilith ! 

(^Alas the hour /) 
To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow, 
God shall greatly multiply sorrow. 

" Fold me fast, O God-snake of Eden ! 

( Sitig Eden Bower /) 
What more prize than love to impel thee ? 
Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee ! 

".Lo ! two babes for Eve and for Adam ! 

{Alas the hour /) 
Lo ! sweet Snake, the travail and treasure, — 
Two men-children born for their pleasure ! 

" The first is Cain and the second Abel : 

{Sing Eden Bower /) 

The soul of one shall be made thy brother, 

And thy tongue shall lap the blood of the other." 
{Alas the hour I) 



92 



THE CARD-DEALER. 

Could you not drink her gaze like wine ? 

Yet though its splendor swoon 
Into the silence languidly 

As a tune into a tune, 
Those eyes unravel the coiled night 

And know the stars at noon. 

The gold that's heaped beside her hand, 

In truth rich prize it were ; 
And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows 

With magic stillness there; 
And he were rich who should unwind 

That woven golden hair. 

Around her, where she sits, the dance 

Now breathes its eager heat ; 
And not more lightly or more true 

Fall there the dancers' feet 



THE CARD-DEALER. 93 

Than fall her cards on the bright board 
As 'twere an heart that beat. 

Her fingers let them softly through, 

Smooth polished silent things ; '. 

And each one as it falls reflects 

In swift light-shadowings, ' 

Blood-red and purple, green and blue, 

The great eyes of her rings. ; 

Whom plays she with? With thee, who lov'st \ 

Those gems upon her hand ; \ 

With me, who search her secret brows ; j 

With all men, bless'd or bann'd. '; 

We play together, she and we, \ 

Within a vain strange land : \ 

A land without any order, — 

Day even as night, (one saith,) — 
Where who lieth down ariseth not 

Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; 
A land of darkness as darkness itself - 

And of the shadow of death. 



94 THE CARD-DEALER. 

What be her cards, you ask ? Even these 
The heart, that doth but crave 

More, having fed ; the diamond. 
Skilled to make base seem brave ; 

The club, for smiting in the dark ; 
The spade to dig a grave. 



J And do you ask what game she plays ? 

J With me 'tis lost or won ; 

r 

'■ With thee it is playing still ; with him 

It is not well begun ; 

But 'tis a game she plays with all 

Beneath the sway o' the sun. 

I'hou seest the card that falls, — she knows 

The card that folio we th : 
Her game in thy tongue is called Life, 

As ebbs thy daily breath : 
When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue 

And know she calls it Death. 



95 



LOVE'S NOCTURN. 

Master of the murmuring courts 

Where the shapes of sleep convene ! — 

Lo ! my spirit here exhorts 
All the powers of thy demesne 
For their aid to woo my queen. 

What reports 
Yield thy jealous courts unseen ? 

Vaporous, unaccountable, 

Dreamworld lies forlorn of light, 

Hollow like a breathing shell. 

Ah ! that from all dreams I might 
Choose one dream and guide its flight ! 

I know well 
What her sleep should tell to-night. 



96 LOVE'S NOCTURIA. 

There the dreams are multitudes : 
Some that will not wait for sleep, 

Deep within the August woods ; 

Some that hum while rest may steep 
Weary labor laid a-heap ; 

Interludes, 
Some, of grievous moods that weep. 



Poets' fancies all are there : 

There the elf-girls flood with wings 

Valleys full of plaintive air ; 

There breathe perfumes ; there in rings 
Whirl the foam-bewildered springs ; 

Siren there 
Winds her dizzy hair and sings. 

Thence the one dream mutually 

Dreamed in bridal unison. 
Less than waking ecstasy ; 

Half-formed visions that make moan 

In the house of birth alone ; 
And what we 

At death's wicket see, unknown. 



LOVE'S NOCTURN. 97 

But for mine own sleep, it lies \ 

In one gracious form's control, | 

Fair with honorable eyes, | 

Lamps of translucent soul : I 

O their glance is loftiest dole, ^ 

Sweet and wise, | 

Wherein Love descries his goal. • \ 



Reft of her, my dreams are all 

Clammy trance that fears the sky : 

Changing footpaths shift and fall ; 
From polluted coverts nigh, 
Miserable phantoms sigh ; 
Quakes the pall, 



And the funeral goes by. J 

\ 



Master, is it soothly said 

That, as echoes of man's speech 
Far in secret clefts are made. 

So do all men's bodies reach 

Shadows o'er thy sunken beach, — 
Shape or shade 

In those halls pourtrayed of each ? 



98 LOVE'S NOCTUR^r. 

Ah ! might I, by thy good grace 
Groping in the windy stair, 

(Darkness and the breath of space 
Like loud waters everywhere,) 
Meeting mine own image there 

Face to face, 
Send it from that place to her ! 

Nay, not I ; but oh ! do thou, 
Master, from thy shadowkind 

Call my body's phantom now : 
Bid it bear its face declin'd 
Till its flight her slumbers find. 

And her brow 
Feels its presence bow like wind. 

Where in groves the gracile Spring 
Trembles, with mute orison 

Confidently strengthening. 

Water's voice and wind's as one 
Shed an echo in the sun. 
Soft as Spring, 
Master, bid it sing and moan. 



Sonr 

I 



Not the pray 
The world' 

Not the praise 
Dulcet fulsoL 
Let it yield m 
And 
Strength that i 



Wheresoe'er my di 

Both at night-v"^ 
And where ror 

The reluctai 

Heartless, ' 
E 

There h' 



id 

.1 of light, 
) may send 
light; — 
night, 



and end aright. 



aead 
lean 

it bed, — 
leen 

between, 
t 



ii 



1 



LOVE'S NOCTURN. loi 

How should love's own messenger 

Strive with love and be love's foe? * 

Master, nay ! If thus, in her, 

Sleep a wedded heart should show, — 

Silent let mine image go. 
Its old share 

Of thy spell-bound air to know. 

Like a vapour wan and mute. 

Like a flame, so let it pass ; 
One low sigh across her lute. 

One dull breath against her glass ; 

And to my sad soul, alas ! 
One salute 

Cold as when death's foot shall pass. 

Then, too, let all hopes of mine. 

All vain hopes by night and day. 
Slowly at thy summoning sign 

Rise up pallid and obey. 

Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — 
Be they thine. 

And to dreamworld pine away. 



I02 LOVE'S NOCTURN. 

j . Yet from old time, life, not death, 

I Master, in thy rule is rife : 

I Lo ! through tliee, with mingling breath, 

Adam woke beside his wife. 
. O Love bring me so, for strife, 

Force and faith, 

Bring me so not death but life ! 

I Yea, to Love himself is pour'd 

\ This frail song of hope and fear. 

i Thou art Love, of one accord 

With kind Sleep to bring her near, 
Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear ! 
Master, Lord, 

J Li her name implor'd, O hear ! 



103 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

What thing unto mine ear 
Would'st thou convey, — what secret thing, 
O wandering water ever whispering? 
Surely thy speech shall be of her. 
Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer, 
What message dost thou bring ? 

Say, hath not Love leaned low 
This hour beside thy far well-head. 
And there through jealous hollowed fingers said 

The thing that most I long to know, — 
Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy flow 
And washed lips rosy red? 

He told it to thee there 
Where thy voice hath a louder tone ; 
But where it welters to this little moan 



I04 THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

His will decrees tliat I should hear. 
Now si)eak : for with the silence is no fear, 
And I am all alone. 

Shall Time not still endow 
One hour with life, and I and she 
Slake in one kiss the thirst of memory? 

Say, stream ; lest Love shoukl disavow 
Thy service, and the bird upon the bough 
Sing first to tell it me. 

What whispercst thou? Nay, why 
Name the dead hours? I mind them well : 
Their ghosts in many darkened doorwaxs dwell 

With desolate eyes to know them b)-. 
The hour that must be born ere it can die, — 
Of that I'd have thee telk 

r>ut hear, before thou speak ! 
Withhold, I pray, the vain behest 
That while the maze hath still its bower for quest 

My burning heart should cease to seek. 
Be sure that Love ordained for souls more meek 
His roadside dells of rest. 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 105 

Stream, when this silver thread 
In flood-time is a torrent brown 
May any bulwark bind thy foaming crown ? 

Shall not the waters surge and spread 

And to the crannied boulders of their bed 

Still shoot the dead drift down? 

Let no rebuke find place 
In speech of thine : or it shall prove 
That thou dost ill expound the words of Love, 

Even as thine eddy's rippling race 
Would blur the perfect image of his face. 
I will have none thereof. 

O learn and understand 
That 'gainst the wrongs himself did wreak 
Love sought her aid ; until her shadowy cheek 

And eyes beseeching gave command ; 
And compassed in her close compassionate hand 
My heart must burn and speak. 

For then at last we spoke 
What eyes so oft had told to eyes 
Through that long-lingering silence whose half-sighs 



io6 THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

Alone the buried secret broke, 
^^^hich with snatched hands and lips' reverberate stroke 
Then from the heart did rise. 

But slie is far away 
Now ; nor the hours of night grown hoar 
Bring yet to me, long gazing from the door, 

The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray 
And rose-crown of the hour that leads the day 
\Vhen we shall meet once more. 

Dark as thy blinded wave 
When brimming midnight floods the glen, — 
Bright as the laughter of thy runnels when 

The dawn yields all the light they crave ; 
Even so these hours to wound and that to save 
Are sisters in Love's ken. 

Oh, sweet her bending grace 
Then when I kneel beside her feet ; 
And sweet her eyes' o'erhanging heaven ; and sweet 

The gathering folds of her embrace ; 
And her fall'n hair at last shed round my face 
When breaths and tears shall meet. 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 107 

Beneath her sheltering hair, 
In the warm silence near her breast, 
Our kisses and our sobs shall sink to rest ; 

As in some still trance made aware 
That day and night have wrought to fulness there 
And Love has built our nest. 

And as in the dim grove, 
When the rains cease that hushed them long, 
'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds wake to song, — 

So from our hearts deep-shrined in love, 
While the leaves throb beneath, around, above. 
The quivering notes shall throng. 

Till tenderest words found vain 
Draw back to wonder mute and deep. 
And closed lips in closed arms a silence keep, 

Subdued by memory's circling strain, — 
The wind-rapt sound that the wind brings again 
While all the willows weep. 

Then by her summoning art 
Shall memory conjure back the sere 
Autumnal Springs, from many a dying year 



io8 THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

Born dead ; and, bitter to the heart, 
The very ways where now we walk apart 
Who then shall cling so near. 

And with each thought new-grown, 
Some sweet caress or some sweet name 
Low-breathed shall let me know her thought the same ; 

Making me rich with every tone 
And touch of the dear heaven so long unknown 
That filled my dreams with flame. 

Pity and love shall burn 
In her pressed cheek and cherishing hands ; 
And from the living spirit of love that stands 

Between her lips to soothe and yearn, | 

Each separate breath shall clasp me round in turn \ 

And loose my spirit's bands. 

Oh, passing sweet and dear, 
Then when the worshipped form and face 
Are felt at length in darkling close embrace ; 

Round which so oft the sun shone clear, 
With mocking light and pitiless atmosphere, 
In many an hour and place. 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 109 

Ah me ! with what proud growth 
Shall that hour's thirsting race be run ; 
While, for each several sweetness still begun 

Afresh, endures love's endless drouth : 
Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, 
sweet mouth. 
Each singly wooed and won. 

Yet most with the sweet soul 
Shall love's espousals then be knit ; 
For very passion of peace shall breathe from it 

O'er tremulous wings that touch the goal, 
As on the unmeasured height of Love's control 
The lustral fires are lit. 

Therefore, when breast and cheek 
Now part, from long embraces free, — 
Each on the other gazing shall but see 

A self that has no need to speak : 
All things unsought, yet nothing more to seek, — 
One love in unity. 

O water wandering past, — 
Albeit to thee I speak this thing, 
O water, thou that wanderest whispering, 



no THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. 
What spell upon thy bosom should Love cast, 
His message thence to wnng? 

Nay, must thou hear the tale 
Of the past days, — -the heavy debt 
Of life that obdurate time withholds, — ere yet 

To win thine ear these prayers prevail, 
And by thy voice Love's self with high All-hail 
Yield up the love-secret? 

How should all this be told ? — 

All the sad sum of wayworn days ; — 

Heart's anguish in the impenetrable maze ; 

And on the waste uncolored wold 
The visible burthen of the sun grown cold 
And the moon's laboring gaze? 

Alas ! shall hope be nurs'd 
On life's all-succoring breast in vain, 
And made so perfect only to be slain? 

Or shall not rather the sweet thirst 
Even yet rejoice the heart with warmth dispers'd 
And strength grown fair again ? 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. n 

Stands it not by the door — 
Love's Hour — till she and I shall meet ; 
With bodiless form and unapparent feet 

That cast no shadow yet before, 
Though round its head the dawn begins to pour 
The breath that makes day sweet? 

Its eyes invisible 
Watch till the dial's thin-thrown shade 
Be born, —yea, till the journeying line be laid 

Upon the point that wakes the spell, 
And there in lovelier light than tongue can tell 
Its presence stand array'd. 

Its soul remembers yet 
Those sunless hours that passed it by ; 
And still it hears the night's disconsolate cry, 

And feels the branches wringing wet 
Cast on its brow, that may not once forget, 
Dumb tears from the blind sky. 

But oh ! when now her foot 
Draws near, for whose sake night and day 
Were long in weary longing sighed away, — 



112 THE STREAM'S SECRET. 

The Hour of Love, 'twas airs grown mute, 
Shall sing beside the door, and Love's own lute 
Thrill to the passionate lay. 

Thou know'st, for Love has told 
Within thine ear, O stream, how soon 
That song shall lift its sweet appointed tune. 

O tell me, for my lips are cold, 
And in my veins the blood is waxing old 
Even while I beg the boon. 

So, in that hour of sighs 
Assuaged, shall we beside this stone 
Yield thanks for grace; while in thy mirror shown 

The twofold image softly lies, 
Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes 
Is imaged all alone. 

Still silent? Can no art 
Of Love's then move thy pity ? Nay, 
To thee let nothing come that owns his sway : 

Let happy lovers have no part 
With thee ; nor even so sad and poor a heart 
As thou hast spurned to-day. 



i 

X 



THE STREAM'S SECRET. 113 

To-day ? Lo ! night is here. 
The glen grows heavy with some veil 
Risen from the earth or fall'n to make earth pale ; 

And all stands hushed to eye and ear, 
Until the night-wind shake the shade like fear 
And every covert quail. 

Ah ! by a colder wave 
On deathlier airs the hour must come 
Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. 

Between the lips of the low cave 
Against that night the lapping waters lave, 
And the dark lips are dumb. 

But there Love's self doth stand. 
And with Life's weary wings far-flown, 
And with Death's eyes that make the water moan. 

Gathers the water in his hand : 
And they that drink know nought of sky or land 
But only love alone. 

O soul-sequestered face 
Far off, — O were that night but now ! 
So even beside that stream even I and thou 



■i- 



114 777^ STREAM'S SECRET. 

Through thirsting h'ps should draw Love's grace, 
And in the zone of that supreme embrace 
Bind aching breast and brow. 

O water whispering 
Still through the dark into mine ears, — 
As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers? — 

Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, 
Wan water, wandering water weltering, 
This hidden tide of tears. 



115 



JENNY. 

" Vengeance of Jennys case ! Fie on her ! Never 
name her, child f^ — (Mrs. Quickly.) 

Lazy laughing languid Jenny, 

Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea, 

Whose head upon my knee to-night 

Rests for a while, as if grown light 

With all our dances and the sound 

To which the wild tunes spun you round : 

Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen 

Of kisses which the blush between 

Could hardly make much daintier ; 

Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair 

Is countless gold incomparable : 

Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell 

Of Love's exuberant hotbed : — Nay, 

Poor flower left torn since yesterday 

Until to-morrow leave you bare ; 

Poor handful of bright spring-water 

Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face ; 



ii6 JENNY. 

Poor shameful Jenny, full of grace 
Thus with your head upon my knee ; — 
Whose person or whose purse may be 
The lodestar of your reverie ? 

This room of yours, my Jenny, looks 
A change from mine so full of books, 
Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth, 
So many captive hours of youth, — 
The hours they thieve from day and night 
To make one's cherished work come right. 
And leave it wrong for all their theft, 
Even as to-night my work was left : 
Until I vowed that since my brain 
And eyes of dancing seemed so fain, 
My feet should have some dancing too : — 
And thus it was I met with you. 
Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part, 
For here I am. And now, sweetheart, 
You seem too "tired to get to bed. 

It was a careless life I led 
When rooms like this were scarce so strange 
Not long ago. What breeds the change, — 



JENNY. 117 \ 

c 

\ 

The many aims or the few years? I 

Because to-night it all appears I 

Something I do not know again. j 

\ 

The cloud's not danced out of my brain, — * 

The cloud that made it turn and swim | 

While hour by hour the books grew dim. f 

Why, Jenny, as I watch you there, — | 

For all your wealth of loosened hair, I 

Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd f 

And warm sweets open to the waist, I 
All golden in the lamplight's gleam, — 
You know not what a book you seem, 
Half-read by lightning in a dream ! 

How should you know, my Jenny? Nay, f 

And I should be ashamed to say : — I 

Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss ! | 

But while my thought runs on like this | 

With wasteful whims more than enough, | 

I wonder what you're thinking of. | 



If of myself you think at all, 
What is the thought ? — conjectural 
On sorry matters best unsolved? — 



Ii8 JENNY. 

Or inly is each grace revolved 

To fit me with a lure ? — or (sad 

To think !) perhaps you're merely glad ; 

That I'm not drunk or ruffianly 

And let you rest upon my knee. 

For sometimes, were the truth confessed, g 

You're thankful for a little rest, — g 

s 

Glad from the crush to rest within, \ 

From the heart-sickness and the din f 

Where envy's voice at virtue's pitch i 

Mocks you because your gown is rich ; 1! 

And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke, 

Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look 

Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak 

And other nights than yours bespeak ; 

And from the wise unchildish elf. 

To schoolmate lesser than himself 

Pointing you out, what thing you are : — 

Yes, from the daily jeer and jar. 

From shame and shame's outbraving too. 

Is rest not sometimes sweet to you? — 

But most from the hatefulness of man 

Who spares not to end what he began, 



JENNY. 119 

Whose acts are ill and his speech ill, 
Who, having used you at his will. 
Thrusts you aside, as when I dine 
I serve the dishes and the wine. 

Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up, 
I've filled our glasses, let us sup, 
And do not let me think of you. 
Lest shame of yours suffice for two. 
What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep 
Your head there, so you do not sleep ; 
But that the weariness may pass 
And leave you merry, take this glass. 
Ah ! lazy lily hand, more bless 'd 
If ne'er in rings it had been dress'd 
Nor ever by a glove conceal'd ! 

Behold the lihes of the field. 
They toil not neither do they spin ; 
(So doth the ancient text begin, — 
Not of such rest as one of these 
Can share.) Another rest and ease 
Along each summer- sated path 
From its new lord the garden hath, 



I20 JENNY. 

Than that whose spring in blessings ran 
Which praised tlie l^ounteous husbandman, 
Ere yet, in days of hankering breath, 
The lihes sickened unto death. 

What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? 
Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread 
Like winter on the garden-bed. 
But you had roses left in May, — 
They were not gone too. Jenny, nay. 
But must your roses die, and those 
Tlieir purfled buds that should unclose ? 
Even so ; the leaves are curled apart. 
Still red as from the broken heart. 
And here's the naked stem of thorns. 

Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns 
As yet of winter. Sickness here 
Or want alone could waken fear, — 
Nothing but passion wrings a tear. 
Except when there may rise unsought 
Haply at times a passing thought 
Of the old days which seem to be 
Much older than any history 



JENNY. 



That is written in any book ; | 

When she would he in fields and look \ 

s 
Along the ground through the blown grass, 

And wonder where the city was, 

Far out of sight, whose broil and bale 

They told her then for a child's tale. 1 

\ 

I 

Jenny, you know the city now, 3 

A child can tell the tale there, how i 

Some things which are not yet enroll'd \ 

In market-lists are bought and sold 

Even till the early Sunday light. 

When Saturday night is market-night 

Everywhere, be it dry or wet. 

And market-night in the Haymarket. 

Our learned London children know. 

Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe ; 

Have seen your lifted silken skirt 

Advertise dainties through the dirt ; 

Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke 

On virtue ; and have learned your look 

When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare 

Along the streets alone, and there, 

Round the long park, across the bridge, 



122 JEJVArV. 

The cold lamps at the pavement's edge 
Wind on together and apart, 
A fiery serpent for your heart. 

Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud ! 
Suppose I were to think aloud, — 
What if to her all this were said? 
Why, as a volume seldom read 
Being opened halfway shuts again, 
So might the pages of her brain 
Be parted at such words, and thence 
Close back upon the dusty sense. 
For is there hue or shape defin'd 
In Jenny's desecrated mind. 
Where all contagious currents meet, 
A Lethe of the middle street? 
Nay, it reflects not any face. 
Nor sound is in its sluggish pace. 
But as they coil those eddies clot. 
And night and day remember not. 

Why, Jenny, you're asleep at last ! — 
Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast, — 
So young and soft and tired ] so fair, 



JEN-NV. 123 

With chin thus nestled in your hair, 

Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue 

As if some sky of dreams shone through ! 

Just as another woman sleeps ! 
Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps 
Of doubt and horror, — what to say 
Or think, — this awful secret sway, 
The potter's power over the clay I 
Of the same lump (it has been said) 
For honor and dishonor made. 
Two sister vessels. Here is one. 

My cousin Nell is fond of fun. 
And fond of dress, and change, and praise, 
So mere a woman in her ways : 
And if her sweet eyes rich in youth 
Are like her lips that tell the truth. 
My cousin Nell is fond of love. 
And she's the girl I'm proudest of. 
Who does not prize her, guard her well ? 
The love of change, in cousin Nell, 
Shall find the best and hold it dear : 
The unconquered mirth turn quieter 



124 JENNY. 

Not through her own, through others' woe : 

The conscious pride of beauty glow 

Beside another's pride in her, 

One httle part of all they share. 

For Love himself shall ripen these 

In a kind soil to just increase 

Through years of fertilizing peace. 

Of the same lump (as it is said) 
For honor and dishonor made, 
Two sister vessels. Here is one. 

It makes a goblin of the sun. 

So pure, — so fall'n ! How dare to think 
Of the first common kindred link? 
Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn 
It seems that all things take their turn ; 
And who shall say but this fair tree 
May need, in changes that may be. 
Your children's children's charity? 
Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn 'd ! 
Shall no man hold his pride forewarn 'd 
Till in the end, the Day of Days, 



JENNY. 125 

At Judgment, one of his own race, 

As frail and lost as you, shall rise, — 

His daughter, with his mother's eyes? I 

How Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf ! i 

Might not the dial scorn itself I 

That has such hours to register? f 

Yet as to me, even so to her I 

Are golden sun and silver moon, \ 

In daily largesse of earth's boon. 
Counted for life-coins to one tune. 
And if, as blindfold fates are toss'd, 
Through some one man this life be lost, 
Shall soul not somehow pay for soul? 

Fair shines the gilded aureole 
In which our highest painters place 
Some living woman's simple face. 
And the stilled features thus descried 
As Jenny's long throat droops aside, — 
The shadows where the cheeks are thin, 
And pure wide curve from ear to chin, — 
With Raffael's, Leonardo's hand 
To show them to men's souls, might stand, 



126 JENNY. 

^^'hole ages long, the wliole world tlirough, 

For preachings of what God can do. 

What has man done here? How atone, 

Great God, for this which man has done ? 

And for the body and soul which by 

Man's pitiless dooni must now comply 

With lifelong hell, what lullaby 

Of sweet forgetful second birth 

Remains? All dark. No sign on earth 

What measure of God's rest endows . i 

The many mansions of his house. 

If but a woman's heart might see 
Such erring heart unerringly 
For once ! But that can never be. 

Like a rose shut in a book 
In which ]:)ure women may not look, 
For its base pages claim control 
To crush the flower within the soul ; 
Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, 
Pale as transparent psyche-wings, 
To the vile text, are traced such things 
As might make lady's cheek indeed 



JENNY. 127 

More than a living rose to -read ; 

So nought save fooHsh foidness may 

Watch with hard eyes the sure decay ; 

And so the life-blood of this rose, 

Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows 

Through leaves no cliaste hand may unclose : 

Yet still it keeps such faded show 

Of when 'twas gathered long ago. 

That the crushed petals' lovely grain. 

The sweetness of the sanguine stain. 

Seen of a woman's eyes, must make 

Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache, 

Love roses better for its sake : — 

Only that this can never be : — 

Even so unto her sex is she. 

Yet, Jenny, looking long at you, 
The woman almost fades from view. 
A cipher of man's changeless sum 
Of lust, past, present, and to come, 
Is left. A riddle that one shrinks 
To challenge from the scornful sphinx. 

Like a toad within a stone 
Seated while Time crumbles on : 



-i~ 



128 JENNY. 

Which sits there since the earth was ciirs'd 

For Man's transgression at the first ; 

Which, hving through all centuries, 

Not once has seen the sun arise ; 

Whose life, to its cold circle charmed, 

The earth's whole summers have not warmed; 

Which always — whitherso the stone 

Be flung — sits there, deaf, blind, alone; — 

Aye, and shall not be driven out 

Till that which shuts him round about 

Break at the very Master's stroke, 

And the dust thereof vanish as smoke, 

And the seed of Man vanish as dust : — 

Even so within this world is Lust. 

Come, come, what use in thoughts like this ? 
Poor little Jenny, good to kiss, — 
You'd not believe by what strange roads 
Thought travels, when your beauty goads 
A man to-night to think of toads ! 
Jenny, wake up ... . Why, there's the dawn ! 

And there's an early wagon drawn 
To market, and some sheep that jog 



JENNY. 129 

Bleating before a barking dog ; 
And the old streets come peering through 
Another night that London knew ; 
And all as ghostlike as the lamps. 

So on the wings of day decamps 
My last night's frolic. Glooms begin 
To shiver off as lights creep in 
Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to, 
And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue, — 
Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight, 2 

Like a wise virgin's, all one night ! * 

And in the alcove cooly spread | 

Glimmers with dawn your empty bed ; \ 

And yonder your fair face I see ^^ 

Reflected lying on my knee, 
Where teems with first foreshadowings 
Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings : 
And on your bosom all night worn 
Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn 
But dies not yet this summer morn. 

And now without, as if some word 
Had called upon them that they heard, \ 



I30 JENNY. 

The London sparrows far and nigh 
Clamor together suddenly ; 
And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake 
Here in their song his part must take, 
Because here too the day doth break. 



And somehow in myself the dawn 
Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn 
Strikes grayly on her. Let her sleep. 
But will it wake her if I heap 
These cushions thus beneath her head 
Where my knee was ? No, — there's your bed, 
My Jenny, while you dream. And there 
I lay among your golden hair 
Perhaps the subject of your dreams, 
These golden coins. 

For still one deems 
That Jenny's flattering sleep confers 
New magic on the magic purse, — ■ 
Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies ! 
Between the threads fine fumes arise 
And shape their pictures in the brain. 
There roll no streets in glare and rain, 
Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk ; 



II 



JENNY. ] 

But delicately sighs in musk 

The homage of the dim boudoir ; 

Or like a palpitating star 

Thrilled into song, the opera-night 

Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light ; 

Or at the carriage-window shine 

Rich wares for choice \ or, free to dine. 

Whirls through its hour of health (divine 

For her) the concourse of the Park. 

And though in the discounted dark 

Her functions there and here are one, 

Beneath the lamps and in the sun 

There reigns at least the acknowledged belle 

Apparelled beyond parallel. 

Ah Jenny, yes, we know your dreams. 



For even the Paphian Venus seems 
A goddess o'er the realms of love, 
When silver-shrined in shadowy grove : 
Aye, or let offerings nicely plac'd 
But hide Priapus to the waist, 
And whoso looks on him shall see 
An eligible deity. 



132 JENNY. 

Why, Jenny, waking here alone 
May help you to remember one, 
Though all the memory's long outworn 
Of many a double-pillowed morn. 
I I think I see you when you wake, 

And rub your eyes for me, and shake 
My gold, in rising, from your hair, 
A Danae for a moment there. 

Jenny, my love rang true ! for still 
Love at first sight is vague, until 
That tinkling makes him audible. 

And must I mock you to the last. 
Ashamed of my own shame, — aghast 
Because some thoughts not born amiss 
Rose at a poor fair face like this? 
Well, of such thoughts so much I know 
In my life, as in hers, they show, 
By a far gleam which I may near, 
A dark path I can strive to clear. 



Only one kiss. Goodbye, my dear. 



133 



f 

s 

i 

THE PORTRAIT. 1 



This is her picture as she was : \ 

It seems a thing to wonder on, j 

As though mine image in the glass | 

Should tarry when myself am gone \ 

I gaze until she seems to stir, — ^ 

Until my eyes almost aver \ 

i 

That now, even now, the sweet lips part 
To breathe the words of the sweet heart : — 
And yet the earth is over her. 

Alas ! even such the thin-drawn ray 

That makes the prison-depths more rude, — 
The drip of water night and day 

Giving a tongue to solitude. j 

Yet only this, of love's whole prize, | 

Remains ; save what in mournful guise I 

Takes counsel with my soul alone, — 

Save what is secret and unknown, 
Below the earth, above the skies. 



[34 THE PORTRAIT. 

In painting her I shrined lier face 
'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in 

Hardly at all ; a covert place 

Where you might think to find a din 

Of doubtful talk, and a live flame 

Wandering, and many a shape whose name 
Not itself knoweth, and old dew, 
And your own footsteps meeting you. 

And all things going as they came. 

A deep dim wood ; and there she stands 

As in that wood that day : for so 
Was the still movement of her hands 

And such the pure line's gracious flow. 
And passing fair the type must seem. 
Unknown the presence and the dream. 

'Tis she : though of herself, alas ! 

Less than her shadow on the grass 
Or than her image in the stream. 

That day we met there, I and she 

One with the other all alone ; 
And we were blithe; yet memory 

Saddens those hours, as when the moon 



THE PORTRAIT. 135 

Looks upon daylight. And with her 
I stooped to drink the spring-water, 

Athirst where other waters sprang ; 

And where the echo is, she sanar, — 
My soul another echo there. 

But when that hour my soul won strength 

For words whose silence wastes and kills, 
Dull raindrops smote us, and at length 

Thundered the heat within the hills. 
That eve I spoke those words again 
Beside the pelted window-pane ; 

And there she hearkened what I said, 

With under-glances that surveyed 
The empty pastures blind with rain. 

Next day the memories of these things. 

Like leaves through which a bird has flown, 

Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ; 
Till I must make them all my own 

And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease 

Of talk and sweet long silences, 
*She stood among the plants in bloom 
At windows of a summer room, 

To feicrn the shadow of the trees. 



136 THE PORTRAIT. 

And as I wrought, while all above 
And all around was fragrant air, 

In the sick burthen of ray love 

It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there 

Beat like a heart among the leaves. 

O heart that never beats nor heaves, 
In that one darkness lying still, 
What now to thee my love's great will 

Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ? 

For now doth daylight disavow 

Those days, — nought left to see or hear. 
Only in solemn whispers now 

At night-time these things reach mine ear ; 
When the leaf-shadows at a breath 
Shrink in the road, and all the heath, 

Forest and water, far and wide, 

In limpid starlight glorified, 
Lie like the mystery of death. 

Last night at last I could have slept, 
And yet delayed my sleep till dawn, 

Still wandering. Then it was I wept ; 
For unawares I came upon 



THE PORTRAIT. 137 

Those glades where once she walked with me : 
And as I stood there suddenly, 

All wan with traversing the night, 

Upon the desolate verge of light 
Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. 

Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears 

The beating heart of Love's own breast, — 
Where round the secret of all spheres 

All angels lay their wings to rest, — 
How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, 
When, by the new birth borne abroad 

Throughout the music of the suns, 

It enters in her soul at once 
And knows the silence there for God ! 

Here with her face doth memory sit 

Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline, 
Till other eyes shall look from it. 

Eyes of the spirit's Palestine, 
Even than the old gaze tenderer : 
While hopes and aims long lost with her 

Stand round her image side by side. 

Like tombs of pilgrims that have died 

About the Holy Sepulchre. | 

s 
I 



13^ 



MY SISTER'S SLEEP. 

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve : 
At length the long-ungranted shade 
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd 

The pain nought else might yet relieve. 

Our mother, who had leaned all day 
Over the bed from chime to chime, 
Then raised herself for the first time, 

And as she sat her down, did pray. 

Her little work-table was spread 
With work to finish. For the glare 
Made by her candle, she had care 

To work some distance from the bed. 

Without, there was a cold moon up, 
Of winter radiance sheer and thin ; 
The hollow halo it was in 

Was like an icy crystal cu]). 



MV S/STKR'S SLEEP. 139 

Througli tlie small room, with subtle sound 
Of flame, by vents the fireshinc drove 
And reddened. In its dim alcove 

The mirror shed a clearness round. 

1 had been sitting up some nights. 

And my tired mind felt weak and blank ; 
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank 

The stillness and the broken lights. 

'i'welve struck. That sound, by dwindling years 
Heard in each hour, cre])t off; and then 
The ruffled silence spread again. 

Like water that a pebble stirs. 

Our mother rose from where she sat : 
Iler needles, as she laid them down, 
Met lightly, and her silken gown 

Settled : no other noise than that. 

" Glory unto the Newly Ijorn ! " 

So, as said angels, she did say ; 

]>ecause we were in Christmas I )ay. 
Though it would still be Ion": till morn. 



140 MV SISTEJ^ 'S SLEEP. 

Just then in the room over us 

There was a pushing back of chairs, 
As some who had sat unawares 

So late, now heard the hour, and rose. 

With anxious softly-stepping haste 

Our mother went where Margaret lay, 
Fearing the sounds o'erhead — should they 

Have broken her long watched-for rest ! 

She stopped an instant, calm, and turned ; 

But suddenly turned back again ; 

And all her features seemed in pain 
With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. 

For my part, I but hid my face, 

And held my breath, and spoke no word : 
There was none spoken ; but I heard 

The silence for a litde space. 

Our mother bowed herself and wept : 
And both my arms fell, and I said, 
" God knows I knew that she was dead." 

And there, all white, my sister slept. 



MV S/STE/^'S SLEEP. 141 

Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn 
A httle after twelve o'clock 
We said, ere the first quarter struck, 

" Christ's blessing on the newly born ! " 



142 



DOWN STREAM. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

The river-reaches wind, 
The whispering trees accept the breeze, 

The ripple's cool and kind : 
With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores, 

Witli rippling laughters gay, 
A\'ith white arms bared to ply the oars. 

On last year's first of May. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

The river's brimmed with rain, 
Through close-met banks and parted banks 

Now near now far again : 
With parting tears caressed to smiles. 

With meeting promised soon. 
With every sweet vow that beguiles. 

On last year's first of June. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 
The river's flecked with foam. 



f 



DOH'.V STREAM. 143 

'Neath shuddering clouds tliat hang in shrouds 

And lost winds wild for home : 
With infant wailings at the breast, 

With homeless steps astray, 
With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest 

On this year's first of May. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

The summer river flows 
With doubled flight of moons by night 

And lilies' deep repose : 
With lo ! beneath the moon's white stare 

A white face not the moon, 
With lilies meshed in tangled hair, 

On this year's first of June. 

Between Holmscote and Hurstcote 

A troth was given and riven, 
From heart's trust grew one life to two, 

Two lost lives cry to Heaven : 
With banks spread calm to meet the sky. 

With meadows newly mowed, 
The harvest-paths of glad July, 

The sweet school-children's road. 



T" 



144 



A LAST CONFESSION. 
(^Regno Lombardo-Veneto, 1848.) 

Our Lombard country-girls along the coast 
Wear daggers in their garters ; for they know 
That they might hate another girl to death 
Or meet a German lover. Such a l^nife 
I bought her, with a hilt of horn and pearl. 

Father, you cannot know of all my thoughts 
That day in going to meet her, — that last day 
For the last time, she said ; — of all the love 
And all the liopeless hope that she might change 
And go back with me. Ah ! and everywhere, 
At places we both knew along the road, 
Some fresh shape of herself as once she was 
Grew present at my side ; until it seemed — 



A LAST CONFESS/ON. 145 

So close they gathered round me — they would all 

Be with me when I reached the spot at last, 

To plead my cause with her against herself 

So changed. O Father, if you knew all this 

You cannot know, then you would know too, Father, 

And only then, if God can pardon me. 

What can be told Til tell, if you will hear. 

I passed a village-fair upon my road, 
And thought, being empty-handed, I would take 
Some little present : such might prove, I said. 
Either a pledge between us, or (God help me !) 
A parting gift. And there it was I bought 
The knife I spoke of, such as women wear. 

That day, some three hours afterwards, I found 
For certain, it must be a parting gift. 
And, standing silent now at last, I looked 
Into her scornful face ; and heard the sea 
Still trying hard to din into my ears 
Some speech it knew which still might change her heart, 
If only it could make me understand. 
One moment thus. Another, and her face 
Seemed further off than the last line of sea. 



146 A LAST COJVFESS/ON'. 

So that I thought, if now she were to speak 
I could not hear lier. Then again I knew 
All, as wc stood together on the sand 
At Iglio, in the first thin shade o' the hills. 

"Take it," I said, and held it out to her. 
While the hilt glanced within my trembling hold ; 
''Take it and keep it for my sake." I said. 
Her neck unbent not, neither did her eyes 
Move, nor her foot left beating of the sand ; 
Only she put it by from her and laughed. 

Father, you hear my speech and not her laugh ; 
But God heard that. Will God remember all ? 

It was another laugh than the sweet sound 
Which rose from her sweet childish heart, that day 
Eleven years before, when first I found her 
Alone upon the hill-side; and her curls 
Shook down in the warm grass as she looked up 
Out of her curls in my eyes bent to hers. 
Slie might have served a painter to portray 
That heavenly child which in the latter days 
Shall walk between the lioii and the lamb. 



A LAST CONFESSION, 147 

I had been for nights in hiding, worn and sick 

And hardly fed ; and so her words at first 

Seemed fitful like the talking of the trees 

And voices in the air that knew my name. 

And I remembered that I sat me down 

Upon the slope with her, and thought the world 

Must be all over or had never been, 

We seemed there so alone. And soon she told me 

Her parents both were gone away from her. 

I thought jDerhaps she meant that they had died ; 

But when I asked her this, she looked again 

Into my face, and said that yestereve 

They kissed her long, and wept and made her weep. 

And gave her all the bread they had with them, 

And then had gone together up the hill 

Where we were sitting now, and had walked on 

Into the great red light ; " and so," she said, 

" I have come up here too ; and when this evening 

They step out of the light as they stepped in, 

I shall be here to kiss them." And she lauc^hed. 

Then I bethought me suddenly of the famine ; 
And how the church-steps throughout all the town, 
\yhen last I had been there a month ago. 



148 A LAST CONFESSION. 

Swarmed with starved folk ; and how the bread was 

weighed 
By Austrians armed ; and women that I knew 
For wiv^es and mothers walked the public street, 
Saying aloud that if their husbands feared 
To snatch the children's food, themselves would stay 
Till they had earned it there. So then this child 
Was piteous to me ; for all told me then 
Her parents must have left her to God's chance, 
To man's or to the Church's charity, 
Because of the great famine, rather than 
To watch her growing thin between their knees. 
With that, God took my mother's voice and spoke, 
And sights and sounds came back and things long since, 
And all my childhood found me on the hills ; 
And so I took her with me. 

I was young, 
Scarce man then. Father ; but the cause which gave 
The wounds I die of now had brought me then 
Some wounds already ; and I lived alone, 
As any hiding hunted man must live. 
It was no easy thing to keep a child 
In safety ; for herself it was not safe, 
And doubled my own danger : but I knew 



A LAST CONFESSION. 149 

That God would help me. 

Yet a little while 
Pardon me, Father, if I pause. I think 
I have been speaking to you of some matters 
There was no need to speak of, have I not? 
You do not know how clearly those things stood 
Within my mind, which I have spoken of. 
Nor how they strove for utterance. Life all past 
Is like the sky when the sun sets in it, 
Clearest where furthest off. 

I told you how 
She scorned my parting gift and laughed. And yet 
A woman's laugh's another thing sometimes : 
I think they laugh in Heaven. I know last night 
I dreamed I saw into the garden of God, 
Where women walked whose painted images 
I have seen with candles round them in the church. 
They bent this way and that, one to another, 
Playing : and over the long golden hair 
Of each there floated like a ring of fire 
Which when she stooped stooped with her, and when 

she rose 
Rose with her. Then a breeze flew in among them, 
As if a window had been opened in heaven 



ISO A LAST confess/on: 

For God to give His blessing from, before 
This world of ours should set ; (for in my dream 
I thought our world was setting, and the sun 
Flared, a spent taper ;) and beneath that gust 
The rings of light quivered like forest-leaves. 
Then all the blessed maidens who were there 
:: Stood up together, as it were a voice 

That called them ; and they threw their tresses back. 
And smote their palms, and all laughed up at once, 
For the strong heavenly joy they had in them 
To hear God bless the world. Wherewith I woke : 
\ And looking round, I saw as usual 

' That she was standing there with her long locks 

Pressed to her side ; and her laugh ended theirs. 

For always when I see her now, she laughs. 
And yet her childish laughter haunts me too, 
J The life of this dead terror ; as in days 

When she, a ciiild, dwelt with me. I must tell 
Something of those days yet before the end. 

I brought her from the city — one such day 
■ W1ien she was still a merry loving child, — 

? The earliest gift I mind my giving her ; 



A LAST CONTESSION-. 151 

^A little image of a flying Love 
Made of our colored glass-ware, in his hands 
A dart of gilded metal and a torch. 
And him she kissed and me, and fain would know 
Why were his poor eyes blindfold, why the wings 
And why the arrow. What I knew I told 
Of Venus and of Cupid, — strange old tales. 
And when she heard that he could rule the loves 
Of men and women, still she shook her head 
And wondered ; and, " Nay, nay," she murmured still, 
" So strong, and he a younger child than I ! " 
And then she'd have me fix him on the wall 
Fronting her little bed ; and then again 
She needs must fix him there herself, because 
I gave him to her and she loved him so, 
And he should make her love me better yet, 
If women loved the more, the more they grew. 
But the fit place upon the wall was high 
For her, and so I held her in my arms : 
And each time that the heavy pruning-hook 
I gave her for a hammer slipped away 
As it would often, still she laughed and laughed 
And kissed and kissed me. But amid her mirth, \ 

Just as she hung the image on the nail, I 



152 A LAST CONFESSION-. 

It slipped and all its fragments strewed the ground : 
And as it fell she screamed, for in her hand 
The dart had entered deeply and drawn blood. 
And so her laughter turned to tears : and '' Oh ! " 
I said, the while I bandaged the small hand, — 
" That I should be the first to make you bleed, 
Who lov^e and love and love you !" — kissing still 
The fingers till I got her safe to bed. 
And still she sobbed, — "not for the pain at all," 
She said, "but for the Love, the poor good Love 
You gave me." So she cried herself to sleep. 

Another later thing comes back to me. 
'Twas in those hardest foulest days of all, 
When still from his shut palace, sitting clean 
Above the splash of blood, old Metternich 
(May his soul die, and never-dying worms 
Feast on its pain for ever ! ) used to thin 
His year's doomed hundreds daintily, each month 
\. Thirties and fifties. This time, as I think, 
Was when his thrift forbade the ]:)oor to take 
That evil brackish salt which the dry rocks 
Keep all through winter when the sea draws in. 
The first I heard of it was a chance shot 



A LAST CONFESS/ OiV. 1 53 

In the street here and there, and on the stones 
A stumbHng clatter as of horse hemmed round. 
Then, when she saw me hurry out of doors, 
My gun slung at my shoulder and my knife 
Stuck in my girdle, she smoothed down my hair 
And laughed to see me look so brave, and leaped 
Up to my neck and kissed me. She was still 
A child ; and yet that kiss was on my lips 
So hot all day where the smoke shut us in. 

For now, being always with her, the first love 
I had — the father's, brother's love — was changed, 
I think, in somewise ; like a holy thought 
Which is a prayer before one knows of it. 
The first time I perceived this, I remember, 
Was once when after hunting I came home 
Weary, and she brought food and fruit for me. 
And sat down at my feet upon the floor 
Leaning against my side. But when I felt 
Her sweet head reach from that low seat of hers 
So high as to be laid upon my heart, 
I turned and looked upon my darling there 
And marked for the first time how tall she w^ ; 
And my heart beat with so much violence 



154 A LAST CONFESSIOIV. 

Under her check, I thought she could not choose 

But wonder at it soon and ask me why ; 

And so I bade her rise and eat with me. 

And when, remembering all and counting back 

The time, I made out fourteen years for her 

And told her so, she gazed at me with eyes 

As of the sky and sea on a gray day, 

And drew her long hands through her hair, and 

asked me 
If she was not a woman ; and then laughed : 
And as she stooped in laughing, I could see 
Beneath the growing throat the breasts half-globed 
Like folded lilies deepset in the stream. 

Yes, let me think of her as then ; for so 
Her image. Father, is not like the sights 
Which come when you are gone. She had a mouth 
Made to bring death to life, — the^underlip 
Sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself. 
Her face was pearly pale, as when one stoops 
Over wan water ; and the dark crisped hair 
And the hair's shadow made it paler still : — 
Deep-serried locks, the dimness of the cloud 
Where the moon's gaze is set in eddying gloom. 



A LAST CONFESS/ON. i 

Her body bore her neck as the tree's stem 

Bears the top branch ; and as the branch sustains 

The flower of the year's pride, her high neck bore 

That face made wonderful with night and day. 

Her voice was swift, yet ever the last words 

Fell lingeringly ; and rounded finger-tips 

She had, that clung a little where they touched 

And then were gone o' the instant. Her great eyes, 

That sometimes turned half dizzily beneath 

The passionate lids, as faint, when she would speak, 

Had also in them hidden springs of mirth, 

Which under the dark lashes evermore 

Shook to her laugh, as when a bird flies low 

Between the water and the willow-leaves. 

And the shade quivers till he wins the light. 

I was a moody comrade to her then, 
For all the love I bore her. Italy, 
The weeping desolate mother, long has claimed 
Her sons' strong arms to lean on, and their hands 
To lop the poisonous thicket from her path, 
Cleaving her way to light. And from her need 
Had grown the fashion of my whole poor life 



156 A LAST CONFESS/ON. 

Wliich I was proud to yield her, as my father 

Had yielded his. And this had come to be 

A game to play, a love to clasp, a hate 

To wreak, all things together that a man 

Needs for his blood to ripen ; till at times 

All else seemed shadows, and I wondered still 

To see such life pass muster and be deemed 

Time's bodily substance. In those hours, no doubt, 

To the young girl my eyes were like my soul, — 

Dark wells of death-in-life that yearned for day. 

And though she ruled me always, I remember 

That once v.hen I was thus and she still kept 

Leaping about the place and laughing, I 

Did almost chide her ; w^hereupon she knelt 

And putting her two hands into my breast 

Sang me a song. Are these tears in my eyes ? 

'Tis long since I have wept for anything. 

I thought that song forgotten out of mind ; 

And now, just as I spoke of it, it came 

All back. It is but a rude thing, ill rhymed, 

Such as a blind man chaunts and his dog hears 

Holding the platter, when the children run 

To merrier sport and leave him. Thus it goes : — 



A LAST COiVFESS/O.V, 



157 



La bella donna* 
Piangendo disse : 
" Come son fisse 
Le stelle in cielo ! 
Quel fiato anelo 
Dello stanco sole, 
Quanto m' assonna ! 
E la luna, macchiata 



* She wept, sweet lady, 
And said in weeping : 
" What spell is keeping 
The stars so steady? 
Why does the power 
Of the sun's noon-hour 
To sleep so move me? 
And the moon in heaven, 
Stained where she passes 
As a worn-out glass is, — 
Wearily driven, 
Why walks she above me? 

" Stars, moon, and sun too, 
I'm tired of either 
And all together ! 
Whom speak they unto 
That I should listen? 
For very surely. 
Though my arms and shoulders 
Dazzle beholders. 
And my eyes glisten, 
All's nothing purely ! 
What are words said for 
At all about them. 
If he they are made for 
Can do without them ? " 

She laughed, sweet lady, 
And said in laughing : 
" His hand clings half in 



i\Iy own already ! 
Oh ! do you love me? 
Oh ! speak of passion 
In no new fashion, 
No loud inveighings, 
But the old sayings 
You once said of me. 

" You said : ' As summer, 
Through boughs grown brittle. 
Comes back a little 
Ere frosts benumb her, — 
So bring'st thou to me 
All leaves and flowers, 
Though autumn's gloomy 
To-day in the bowers.' 

" Oh ! does he love me, 
W^hen my voice teaches 
The very speeches 
He then spoke of me? 
Alas ! what flavor 
Still with me lingers?" 
(But she laughed as my kisses 
Glowed in her fingers 
With love's old blisses.) 
" Oh ! what one favor 
Remains to woo him, 
W^hose whole poor savor 
Belongs not to him ? '' 



158 A LAST COiVFESS/OA^. 

Come lino spccchio 
Logoro e vecchio, — 
Faccia afifaniiata, 
Che cosa vuole? 

" Che stelle, luna, e sole, 
Ciasciin m' annoja 
E m' annojano insieme ; 
Non me ne preme 
Ne ci prendo gioja. 
E veramente, 
Che le spalle sien franche 
E la braccia bianche 
E il seno caldo e tondo, 
Non mi fa niente. 
Che cosa al mondo 
Posso pill far di questi 
Se non piacciono a te, come dicesti ? 

La donna rise 

E riprese ridendo : — 

" Questa mano che prendo 

E dunque mi a? 

Tu m' ami dunque ? 

Dimmelo ancora, 

Non in modo qualunque, 

i\Ia le parole 

Belle e precise 

Che dicesti pria. 

" Sicanne suole 
, La state talora 



A LAST CONFESSrOA^. 159 

(Dicesti) jin qnalchc is f ante 

To)-nare innanzi inveiiio, 

Cosi t:i,fai cW to scerno 
Lefoglie tiiUe qnantc, 
Ben cJC io ccrto tencssi 
Per passafo V aiitunno. 

" Eccolo il mio alunno ! 
Io debbo insegnargli 
Quei cari detti istessi 
Ch' ei mi disse una volta ! 
Oime ! Che cosa dargli," 
(Ma ridea piano piano 
Dei bad in sulla mano.) 
'•'Cli' ci non m'abbia da lungo tempo tolta? " 

That I sliould sing upon this bed ! — with you 
To listen, and such words still left to say ! 
Yet was it I that sang? The voice seemed hers, 
As on the very day she sang to me ; 
When, having done, she took out of my hand 
Something that I had played with all the while 
And laid it down beyond my reach ; and so 
Turning my face round till it fronted hers, — 
'^ Weeping or laughing, which was best?" she said. 

But these are foolish tales. How should I show 
The heart that glowed then with love's heat, each day 



; i6o A LAST COJVFESS/OjV. 

\ 

\ IMorc and more brightly? — when for long years now 

I The very flame that flew about the heart, 

\ And gave it fiery wings, has come to be 

The lapping blaze of hell's environment 
Whose tongues all bid the molten heart despair. 

Yet one more thing comes back on me to-night 
Which 1 may tell you : for it bore my soul 
Dread firstlings of the brood that rend it now. 

I It chanced that in our last year's wanderings 

We dwelt at Monza, far away from home, 
■; If home we had : and in the Duomo there 

\ I sometimes entered with her when she prayed. 

\ An imaire of Our Ladv stands there, wroudit 



In marble by some great Italian hand 

In the great days when she and Italy 

Sat on one throne together : and to her 

And to none else my loved one told her heart. 

She was a woman then ; and as she knelt, — 

Her sweet brow in the sweet brow's shadow there, - 

They seemed two kindred forms whereby our land 

(Whose work still serves the world for miracle) 

Made manifest herself in womanhood. 

Father, the day I speak of was the first 



A LAST CONFESSION. i6i 

For v/eeks that I had borne her company 

Into the Dnomo ; and those weeks had been 

Much troubled, for then first the gUmpses came 

Of some impenetrable restlessness 

Growing in her to make her changed and cold. 

And as we entered there that day, I bent 

My eyes on the fair Image, and I said 

Within my heart, " Oh turn her heart to me ! " 

And so I left her to her prayers, and went 

To gaze upon the pride of Monza's shrine, 

Where in the sacristy the light still falls 

Upon the Iron Crown of Italy, 

On whose crowned heads the day has closed, nor yet 

The daybreak gilds another head to crown. 

But coming back, I wondered when I saw 

That the sweet Lady of her prayers now stood 

Alone without her ; until further off, 

Before some new Madonna gaily decked. 

Tinselled and gewgawed, a slight German toy, 

I saw her kneel, still praying. At my step 

She rose, and side by side we left the church. 

I was much moved, and sharply questioned her 

Of her transferred devotion ; but she seemed 

Stubborn and heedless \ till she lightly laughed 



1 62 A LAST confess/on: 

And said : "The old Madonna? Aye indeed, 

She had my old thoughts, — this one has my new." 

Then silent to the soul I held my way : 

And from the fountains of the pul^lic place 

Unto the pigeon-haunted pinnacles. 

Bright wings and water winnowed the bright air ; 

And stately with her laugh's subsiding smile 

She went, with clear-swayed waist and towering neck 

And hands held light before her ; and the face 

Which long had made a day in my life's night 

Was night in day to me ; as all men's eyes 

Turned on her beauty, and she seemed to tread 

Beyond my heart to the world made for her. 

Ah there ! my wounds will snatch my sense again : 
The pain comes billowing on like a full cloud 
Of thunder, and the flash that breaks from it 
Leaves my brain burning. That's the wound he gave 
The Austrian whose white coat I still made matcli 
With his white face, only the two grew red 
As suits his trade. The devil makes them wear 
White for a livery, that the blood may show 
Braver that brings them to him. So he looks 
Sheer o'er the field and knows his own at once. 



A LAST CONFESSIOA^. 163 

Give me a draught of water in that cup ; 
My voice feels thick ; perhaps you do not hear ; 
But you mtisf hear. If you mistake my words 
And so absoh^e me, I am sure tlie blessing 
Will burn my soul. If you mistake my words 
And so absolve me, Father, the great sin 
Is yours, not mine : mark this : your soul shall burn 
With mine for it. I have seen pictures where 
Souls burned with Latin shriekings in their mouths : 
Shall my end be as theirs? Nay, but I know 
'Tis you shall shriek in Latin. SDme bell rings, 
Rings through my brain : it strikes the hour in hell. 

You see I cannot. Father ; I have tried, 
But cannot, as you see. These twenty times 
Beginning, I have come to the same point 
And stopped. Beyond, there are but broken words 
Which will not let you understand my tale. 
It is that then we have her with us here. 
As when she wrung her hair out in my dream 
To-night, till all the darkness reeked of it. 
Her hair is always wet, for she has kept 
Its tresses wrapped about her side for years ; 
And when she wrung them round over the floor, 



1 64 ^/ LAST COA^FESSWAT. 

\ 

I I heard the blood between her fingers hiss ; 



So that I sat up in my bed and screamed 
Once and again ; and once to once, she laughed. 
Look that you turn not now, — she's at your back 
Gather your robe up, Father, and keep close, 
Or she'll sit down on it and send you mad. 

At Iglio in the first thin shade o' the hills 
The sand is black and red. The black was black 
When what was spilt that day sank into it, 
And the red scarcely darkened. There I stood 
This night with her, and saw the sand the same. 



What would you have me tell you ? Father, father, 
How shall I make you know? You have not known 
The dreadful soul of woman, who one day 
Forgets the old and takes the new to heart, 
Forgets what man remembers, and therewith 
Forgets the man. Nor can I clearly tell 
How the change happened between her and me. 
Her eyes looked on me from an emptied heart 
When most my heart was full of her ; and still 
In every corner of myself I sought \ 



A LAST CONFESSION. 165 

To find what service failed her ; and no less 

Than in the good time past, there all was hers. 

What do you love ? Your Heaven ? Conceive it spread 

For one first year of all eternity 

All round you with all joys and gifts of God ; 

And then when most your soul is blent with it 

And all yields song together, — then it stands 

O' the sudden like a pool that once gave back 

Your image, but now drowns it and is clear 

Again, — or like a sun bewitched, that burns 

Your shadow from you, and still shines in sight. 

How could you bear it ? Would you not cry out, 

Among those eyes grown blind to you, those ears 

That hear no more your voice you hear the same, — 

" God 1 what is left but hell for company, 

But hell, hell, hell?" — until the name so breathed 

Whirled with hot wind and sucked you down in fire ? 

Even so I stood the day her empty heart 

Left her place empty in our home, while yet 

I knew not why she went nor where she went 

Nor how to reach her : so I stood the day 

When to my prayers at last one sight of her 

W^as granted, and I looked on heaven made pale 

With scorn, and heard heaven mock me in that laugh. 



» 1 66 A LAST confession: 



O sweet, long sweet ! Was that some ghost of you, 
Even as your ghost tliat liaunts me now, — twin shapes 
Of fear and hatred ? May I find you yet 
Mine when death wakes? Ah ! be it even in flame, 
We may have sweetness yet, if you but say 
As once in childish sorrow : " Not my pain, 
My pain was nothing : oh your poor poor love, 
Your broken love ! " 

My Father, have I not 
Yet told you the last things of that last day 
On which I went to meet her by the sea? 

God, O God ! but I must tell you all. 

Midway upon my journey, when I stopped 
To buy the dagger at the village fair, 

1 saw two cursed rats about the place 

I knew for spies — blood-sellers both. That day 
Was not yet over ; for three hours to come 
I prized my life : and so I looked around 
For safety. A poor painted mountebank 
Was playing tricks and shouting in a crowd. 
I knew he must have heard my name, so I 
Pushed past and whispered to him who I was. 
And of my danger. Straight he hustled me 



A LAST CONFESSION. 167 

Into his booth, as it were in the trick, 

And brought me out next minute with my face 

All smeared in patches and a zany's gown ; 

And there I handed him his cups and balls 

And swung the sand-bags round to clear the ring 

For half an hour. The spies came once and looked ; 

And while they stopped, and made all sights and sounds 

Sharp to my startled senses, I remember 

A woman laughed above me. I looked up 

And saw where a brown-shouldered harlot leaned 

Half through a tavern window thick with vine. 

Some man had come behind her in the room 

And caught her by her arms, and she had turned 

With that coarse empty laugh on him, as now 

He munched her neck with kisses, while the vine 

Crawled in her back. 

And three hours afterwards. 
When she that I had run all risks to meet 
Laughed as I told you, my life burned to death 
Within me, for I thought it like the laugh 
Heard at the fair. She had not left me long ; 
But all she might have changed to, or might change to, 
(I know nought since — she never speaks a word — ) 



I 

i i68 A LAST CONFESS/ON. 

( 
[ 

Seemed in that laugh. Have I not told you yet, 
Not told you all this time what happened, Father, 
When I had offered her the little knife. 
And bade her keep it for my sake that loved her, 
f And she had laughed? Have I not told you yet? 

"Take it," I said to her the second time, 
''Take it and keep it." And then came a fire 
That burnt my hand ; and then the fire was blood, 
: And sea and sky were blood and fire, and all 

5 The day was one red blindness ; till it seemed, 

; Within the whirling brain's ecli{)se, that she 

• Or I or all things bled or burned to death. 
I And then I found her laid against my feet 

" And knew that I had stabbed her, and saw still 

' Her look in fallinof. For she took the knife 

\ Deep in her heart, even as I bade her then, 

\ And fell ; and her stiff bodice scooped the sand 

'- Into her bosom. 

I And she keeps it, see, 

* Do you not see she keeps it? — there, beneath 
Wet fingers and wet tresses, in her heart. 

y For look you, when she stirs her hand, it shows 



t 



A LAST CONFESS/ON. 169 

The little hilt of horn and pearl, — even such 
A dagger as our women of the coast 
Twist in their garters. 

Father, I have done : 
And from her side now she unwinds the thick 
Dark hair ; all round her side it is wet through, 
But, like the sand at Iglio, does not change. 
Now you may see the dagger clearly. Father, 
I have told all : tell me at once what hope 
Can reach me still. For now she draws it out 
Slowly, and only smiles as yet : look, Father, 
She scarcely smiles : but I shall hear her laugh 
Soon, when she shows the crimson steel to God. 



■i 



170 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 

In our Museum galleries 

To-day I lingered o'er the prize 

Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes, — 

Her Art for ever in fresh wise 

From hour to hour rejoicing me. 
Sighing I turned at last to win 
Once more the London dirt and din ; 
And as I made the swing-door spin 
And issued, they were hoisting in 

A winged beast from Nineveh. 

A human face the creature wore, 
And hoofs behind and hoofs before, 
And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er. 
'Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaur, 
A dead disbowelled mystery : 



i- 

i 

i 

i 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 1 7 1 

The mummy of a buried faith 
Stark from the charnel without scathe, 
Its wings stood for the light to bathe, — 
Such fossil cerements as might swathe 
The very corpse of Nineveh. 

The print of its first rush-wrapping, 
Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing. 
What song did the brown maidens sing, 
From purple mouths alternating, 

When that was woven languidly? 
What vows, what rites, what prayers preferr'd, 
What songs has the strange image heard? 
In what blind vigil stood interr'd 
For ages, till an English word 

Broke silence first at Nineveh? 

Oh when upon each sculptured court, 
Where even the wind might not resort, — 
O'er which Time passed, of like import 
With the wild Arab boys at sport, — 
A living face looked in to see : — 
O seemed it not — the spell once broke — 
As thoudi the carven warriors woke. 



172 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 

As though the shaft the string forsook, 
The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, 
And there was life in Nineveh? 

\ On London stones our sun anew 

\ The beast's recovered shadow threw. 

^ (No shade that plague of darkness knew, 

I No light, no shade, while older grew 

8 By ages the old earth and sea.) 

I Lo thou ! could all thy priests have shown 



\ Such proof to make thy godhead known ? 

\ 

From their dead Past thou liv'st alone ; 

And still thy shadow is thine own, 

Even as of yore in Nineveh. 

That day whereof we keep record. 
When near thy city-gates the Lord 
Sheltered His Jonah with a gourd, 

\ This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd 

Even thus this shadow that I see. 
This shadow has been shed the same 
From sun and moon, — from lamps which came 
For prayer, — from fifteen days of flame, 

; The last, while smouldered to a name 

I Sardanapalus' Nineveh. 



THE BURDEN- OE NINEVEH, 173 

Within thy shadow, haply, once 
Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons 
Smote him between the altar-stones : 
Or pale Semiramis her zones 

Of gold, her incense brought to thee, 
In love for grace, in war for aid : . . . . 
Ay, and who else ? . . . . till 'neath thy shade 
Within his trenches newly made 
Last year the Christian knelt and pray'd — 

Not to thy strength — in Nineveh. 1 

Now, thou poor god, within this hall 
Where the blank windows blind the wall 
From pedestal to pedestal. 
The kind of light shall on thee fall 

Which London takes the day to be : 
While school-foundations in the act 
Of holiday, three files compact. 
Shall learn to view thee as a fact 
Connected with that zealous tract : 

*' Rome, — Babylon and Nineveh." 

1 During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their services 
in the shadow of the great bulls. — {Layard's "Nineveh" ch. ix.) 



174 THE BURDEN OE NINEVEH. 

Deemed they of this, those worshippers, 
When, in some mythic chain of verse 
Which man shall not again rehearse, 
The faces of thy ministers 

Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy? 
Greece, Egypt, Rome, — did any god 
Before whose feet men knelt unshod 
Deem that in this unblest abode 
Another scarce more unknown god 

Should house with him, from Nineveh? 

Ah ! in what quarries lay the stone 
From which this pillared pile has grown. 
Unto man's need how long unknown. 
Since those thy temples, court and cone. 

Rose far in desert history ? 
Ah ! what is here that does not lie 
All strange to thine awakened eye ? 
Ah ! what is here can testify 
(Save that dumb presence of the sky) 

Unto thy day and Nineveh ? 

Why, of those mummies in the room 
Above, there might indeed have come 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 175 

One out of Egypt to thy home, 
An ahen. Nay, but were not some 

Of these thine own "antiquity?" 
And now, — they and their gods and thou 
All relics here together, — now 
Whose profit? whether bull or cow, 
Isis or Ibis, who or how, 

Whether of Thebes or Nineveh ? 

The consecrated metals found, 
And ivory tablets, underground. 
Winged teraphim, and creatures crown'd, 
When air and daylight filled the mound, 

Fell into dust immediately. 
And even as these, the images 
Of awe and worship, — even as these, — 
So, smitten with the sun's increase, 
Her glory mouldered and did cease 

From immemorial Nineveh. 

The day her builders made their halt. 
Those cities of the lake of salt 
Stood firmly 'stablished without fault, 
Made prouc '"'^rs of basalt. 

With sar porphyry. 



176 THE BURDEN OE NINEVEH, 

The day that Jonah bore abroad 
To Nineveh the voice of God, 
A brackish lake lay in his road, 
Where erst Pride fixed her sure abode, 
As then in royal Nineveh. 

The day when he, Pride's lord and Man's, 
Showed all the kingdoms at a glance 
To Him before whose countenance 
The years recede, the years advance, 

And said. Fall down and worship me : — • 
'Mid all the pomp beneath that look, 
Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke, 
Where to the wind the Salt Pools shook, 
And in those tracts, of life forsook. 

That knew thee not, O Nineveh ! 

Delicate harlot ! On thy throne 
Thou with a world beneath thee prone 
In state for ages sat'st alone ; 
And needs were years and lustres flown 

Ere strength of man could vanquish thee : 
Whom even thy victor foes must bring, 
Still royal, among maids that sing 



I 

THE BURDEiY OF NINEVEH. 177 ^ 



As with doves' voices, laboring 
Upon their breasts, unto the King, — 
A kingly conquest, Nineveh ! 

. . . Here woke my thought. The wind's slow sway 
Had w^axed ; and like the human play 
Of scorn that smiling spreads away, 
The sunshine shivered off the day : 

The callous wind, it seemed to me, 
Swept up the shadow from the ground : 
And pale as whom the Fates astound. 
The god forlorn stood winged and crown'd : 
Within I knew tlie cry lay bound 

Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. 

And as I turned, my sense half shut 
Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut 
Go past as marshalled to the strut 
Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. 

It seemed in one same pageantry 
They followed forms which had been erst ; 
To pass, till on my sight should burst 
That future of the best or worst 
When some may question which was first, 

^'" " )r of Nineveh. 



178 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH, 

For as that Bull-god once did stand 
And watched the burial-clouds of sand, 
Till these at last without a hand 
Rose o'er his eyes, another land. 

And blinded him with destiny : — • 
So may he stand again ; till now, 
In ships of unknown sail and prow, 
Some tribe of the Australian plough 
Bear him afar, — a relic now 

Of London, not of Nineveh ! 

Or it may chance indeed that when 

Man's age is hoary among men, — 

His centuries threescore and ten, — 
\ 

\ His furthest childhood shall seem then 

s 
\ More clear than later times may be : 

I Who, finding in this desert place 

This form, shall hold us for some race 

That walked not in Christ's lowly ways, 

But bowed its pride and vowed its praise 

Unto the God of Nine^^-' 



The smile rose first, — ; gh 

The thought : . . . Those spread high 



THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 179 ; 

\ 

So sure of flight, which do not fly ; j 

That set gaze never on the sky ; j 

Those scriptured flanks it cannot see ; ! 

Its crown, a brow-contracting load ; \ 

Its planted feet which trust the sod : . . . \ 

(So grew the image as I trod : ) | 
O Nineveh, was this thy God, — 
Thine also, mighty Nineveh? 



I So 



WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 

i8//; November, 1852. 

" Victory ! " 
So once more the cry must be. 
Duteous mourning we fulfil 
In God's name ; but by God's will, 
Doubt not, the last word is still 

"Victory!" 

Funeral, 
In the music round this pall, 
Solemn grief yields earth to earth ; 
But what tones of solemn mirth 
In the pageant of new birth 

Rise and fall? 

For indeed. 
If our eyes were ope- 
Who shall say what e. 



WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. i8i 

Here, which breath nor gleam denotes, — 
P'iery horses, chariots 
Fire-footed ? 

Trumpeter, 
Even thy call he may not hear; 
Long-known voice for ever past. 
Till with one more trumpet-blast 
God's assuring word at last 

Reach his ear. 

Multitude, 
Hold your breath in reverent mood : 
For while earth's whole kindred stand 
Mute even thus on either hand, 
This soul's labor shall be scann'd 

And found good. 

Cherubim, 
Lift ye not even now your hymn? 
Lo ! once lent for human lack, 
Michael's sword is rendered back. 
Thrills not now the starry track, 

Seraphim ? 



[82 WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 

Gabriel, 
Since the gift of thine " All hail !" 
Out of Heaven no time hath brought 
Gift with fuller blessing fraught 
Than the peace which this man wrought 

Passing well. 

Be no word 
Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd. 
Say : " 'Twas thus in His decrees 
Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, 
For His harvest's high increase 

Sent a sword." 

Veterans, 
He by whom the neck of France 
Then was given unto your heel, 
Timely sought, may lend as well 
To your sons his terrible 

Countenance. 

Waterloo ! 
As the last grave must renew, 
Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain, — 



WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 183 

So methinks upon thy plain 
Falls some presage in the rain, 
In the clew. 

And O thou, 
Watching with an exile's brow 
Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood : — 
Lo ! the saving strength of God 
In some new heart's English blood 

Slumbers now. 

Emperor, 
Is this all thy work was for ? — 
Thus to see thy self-sought aim, 
Yea thy titles, yea thy name, 
In another's shame, to shame 

Bandied o'er? ^ 

Wellington, 
Thy great work is but begun. 
With quick seed his end is rife 
Whose long tale of conquering strife 
Shows no triumph like his life 

Lost and won. 

1 Date of the Coup d'Etat : 2nd December, 1851. 



1 84 



AN OLD SONG ENDED. 

" How should I your true love know 

From another one ? " 
" By his cockle-hat and staff 

And his sandal-shoo7i.^^ 

" And what signs have told you now 

That he hastens home ? " 
" Lo ! the spring is nearly gone, 

He is nearly come." 

" For a token is there nought, 
Say, that he should bring?" 

" He will bear a ring I gave 
And another ring." 

" How may I, when he shall ask, 
Tell him who lies there?" 

" Nay, but leave my face unveiled 
And unbound my hair." 

" Can you say to me some word 

I shall say to him?" 
" Say I'm looking in his eyes 

Though my eyes are dim." 



i85 



WORLD'S WORTH. 

Tis of the Father Hilary. 

He strove, but could not pray ; so took | 

The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook | 

A sad blind echo. Ever up ] 

He toiled. Tvvas a sick sway of air . 

That autumn noon within the stair. 
As dizzy as a turning cup. 

His brain benumbed him, void and thin ; ? 

He shut his eyes and felt it spin ; 

The obscure deafness hemmed him in. i 

He said : " O world, what world for me ?" I 

He leaned unto the balcony * 

Where the chime keeps the night and day ; ^ 
It hurt his brain, he could not pray. 

He had his face upon the stone : - 

Deep 'tvvixt the narrow shafts, his eye ' 

Passed all the roofs to the stark sky, { 



I- 



-\ 



[86 WORLD'S WORTH. 

Swept with no wing, with wind alone. 
Close to his feet the sky did shake 
With wind in pools that the rains make : 
The ripple set his eyes to ache. 

He said : "O world, what world for me?" 

He stood within the mystery 

Girding God's blessed Eucharist : 

The organ and the chaunt had ceas'd. \ 

The last words paused against liis ear 

Said from the altar : drawn round him 

i 
The gathering rest was dumb and dim. 

And now the sacring-bell rang clear 

And ceased ; and all was awe, — the breath 
Of God in man that warranteth 
The inmost utmost things of faith. 

He said : " O God, my world in Thee ! " 



87 



ASPECTA MEDUSA. 

Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, 
Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head 
Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean, 
And mirrored in the wave was safely seen 
That death she lived by. 

Let not thine eyes know 
Any forbidden thing itself, although 
It once should save as well as kill : but be 
Its shadow upon life enough for thee. 



i88 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

"Sister," said busy Amelotte 

To listless x\loyse ; 
" Along your wedding-road the wheat 
Bends as to hear your horse's feet, 
And the noonday stands still for heat." 

Amelotte laughed into the air 

With eyes that sought the sun : 
But where the walls in long brocade 
Were screened, as one who is afraid 
Sat Aloyse within the shade. 

And even in shade was gleam enough 

To shut out full repose 
From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which 
Was like the inner altar-niche 
Whose dimness worship has made rich. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

Within the window's heaped recess 
The hght was counterchanged 
In blent reflexes manifold 
From perfume-caskets of wrought gold 
And gems the bride's hair could not hold 

All thrust together : and with these 
A slim-curved lute, which now, 
At Amelotte's sudden passing there, 
Was swept in somewise unaware, 
And shook to music the close air. 

Against the haloed lattice-panes 

The bridesmaid sunned her breast 
Then to the glass turned tall and free, 
And braced and shifted daintily 
Her loin-belt through her cote-hardie. 

The belt was silver, and the clasp 

Of lozenged arm-bearings ; 
A world of mirrored tints minute 
The rippling sunshine wrought into 't. 
That flushed her hand and warmed her foot. 



190 THE BRFDE'S PRELUDE. 

At least an hour had Aloyse, — 

Her jewels in her hah-, — 
Her white gown, as became a bride, 
Quartered in silver at each side, — 
Sat thus aloof, as if to hide. 

Over her bosom, that lay still, 

The vest was rich in grain, 
With close pearls wholly overset : 
Around her throat the fastenings met 
Of chevesayle and mantelet. 

Her arms were laid along her lap 

With the hands open : life 
Itself did seem at fault in her : 
Beneath the drooping brows, the stir 
Of thought made noonday heavier. 

Long sat she silent ; and then raised 

Her head, with such a gasp 
As while she summoned breath to speak 
Fanned high that furnace in the cheek 
But sucked the heart-pulse cold and weak. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 191 

(Oh gather round her now, all ye | 

Past seasons of her fear, — \ 
Sick springs, and summers deadly cold ! 

To flight your hovering wings unfold, \ 

For now your secret shall be told. \ 

Ye many sunlights, barbed with darts \ 

Of dread detecting flame, — [' 

Gaunt moonlights that like sentinels I 

Went past with iron clank of bells, — \ 

Draw round and render up your spells !) \ 

f. 

" Sister," said Aloyse, " I had I 

A thing to tell thee of S 

Lonsf since, and could not. But do thou \ 



Kneel first in prayer awhile, and bow 
Thine heart, and I will tell thee now." 

Amelotte wondered with her eyes ; 

But her heart said in her : 
" Dear Aloyse would have me pray 
Because the awe she feels to-day 
Must need more prayers than she can say." 



192 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

So Amelotte put by the folds 

That covered up her feet, 
And knelt, — beyond the arras'd gloom 
And the hot window's dull perfume, — 
Where day was stillest in the room. 

" Queen Mary, hear," she said, " and say 

To Jesus the Lord Christ, 
This bride's new joy, which He confers, 
New joy to many ministers. 
And many griefs are bound in hers." 

The bride turned in her chair, and hid 

Her face against the back. 
And took her pearl-girt elbows in 
Her hands, and could not yet begin. 
But shuddering, uttered, " Urscelyn ! " 

Most weak she was ; for as she pressed 

Her hand against her throat, 
Along the arras she let trail 
Her face, as if all heart did fail, 
And sat with shut eyes, dumb and pale. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 193 

Amelotte still was on her knees 

As she had kneeled to pray. 
Deeming her sister swooned, she thought, 
At first, some succor to have brought ; 
But Aloyse rocked, as one distraught. 

She would have pushed the lattice wide 

To gain what breeze might be ; i 

But marking that no leaf once beat \ 

The outside casement, it seemed meet I 



Not to bring in more scent and heat. 



So she said only : "Aloyse, \ 

Sister, when happened it % 

At any time that the bride came \ 

To ill, or spoke in fear of shame, ? 
When speaking first the bridegroom's name ? " 

A bird had out its song and ceased 

Ere the bride spoke. At length 
She said : " The name is as the thing : — 
Sin hath no second christening, 
And shame is all that shame can bring. 



194 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" In divers places many an while 
I would have told thee this ; 
But faintness took me, or a fit 
Like fever. God would not permit 
That I should change thine eyes with it. 

" Yet once I spoke, hadst thou but heard 

That time we wandered out 
All the sun's hours, but missed our way 
When evening darkened, and so lay 
The whole night covered up in hay. 

"At last my face was hidden : so. 
Having God's hint, I paused 
Not long ; but drew myself more near 
Where thou wast laid, and shook off fear. 
And whispered quick into thine ear 



" Something of the whole tale. At first 

I lay and bit my hair 
For the sore silence thou didst keep : 
Till, as thy breath came long and deep, 
I knew that thou hadst been asleep. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 195 

" The moon was covered, but the stars 

Lasted till morning broke. 
Awake, thou told'st me that thy dream 
Had been of me, — that all did seem 
At jar, — but that it was a dream. 

" I knew God's hand and might not speak. 

After that night I kept 
Silence and let the record swell : 
Till now there is much more to tell 
Which must be told out ill or well." 



She paused then, weary, with dry lips 

Apart. From the outside 
By fits there boomed a dull report 
From where i' the hanging tennis-court 
The bridegroom's retinue made sport. 

The room lay still in dusty glare. 
Having no sound through it 
Except the chirp of a caged bird 
That came and ceased : and if she stirred, 
Amelotte's raiment could be heard. 



l 196 . T//E BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

I Quoth Amelotte : " The night this chanced 

I Was a late summer night 

: Last year ! What secret, for Christ's love, 

Keep'st thou since then ? Mary above ! 

What thing is this thou speakest of? 



" Mary and Christ ! Lest when 'tis told 

I should be prone to wrath, — 
This prayer beforehand ! How she errs 
Soe'er, take count of grief like hers, 
Whereof the days are turned to years ! " 

She bowed her neck, and having said, 

Kept on her knees to hear ; 
And then, because strained thought demands 
Quiet before it understands, 
Darkened her eyesight with her hands. 

So when at last her sister spoke, 

She did not see the pain 
O' the mouth nor the ashamed eyes. 
But marked the breath that came in sighs 
And the half-pausing for replies. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 197 

This was the bride's sad prekide-strain : — 

" I' the convent where a girl 
I dwelt till near my womanhood, 
I had but preachings of the rood 
And Aves told in soHtude 



" To spend my heart on : and my hand 

Had but the weary skill 
To eke out upon silken cloth 
Christ's visage, or the long bright growth 
Of Mary's hair, or Satan wroth. 

" So when at last I went, and thou, 

A child not known before, 
Didst come to take the place I left, — 
My limbs, after such lifelong theft 
Of hfe, could be but little deft 



" In all that ministers delight 

To noble women : I 
Had learned no word of youth's discourse, 
Nor gazed on games of warriors. 
Nor trained a hound, nor ruled a horse. 



-r 



I 198 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

\ 

: " Besides, the daily life i' the sun 

Made me at first hold back. 

J To thee this came at once ; to me 

I It crept with pauses timidly ; 

\ I am not blithe and strong like thee. 



*' Yet my feet liked the dances well, 

The songs went to my voice, 
The music made me shake and weep ; 
And often, all night long, my sleep 
Gave dreams I had been fain to keep. 

" But though I loved not holy things. 

To hear them scorned brought pain, — 
They were my childhood ; and these dames 
Were merely perjured in saints' names 
And fixed upon saints' days for games. 

" And sometimes when my father rode 

To hunt with his loud friends, 
I dared not bring him to be quaffd, 
As my wont was, his stirrup-draught. 
Because they jested so and laugh'd. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 199 

" At last one day my brothers said, 

' The girl must not grow thus, — 
Bring her a jennet, — she shall ride.' 
They helped my mounting, and I tried 
To laugh with them and keep their side. 



But brakes were rough and bents were steep 

Upon our path that day : 
My palfrey threw me ; and I went 
Upon men's shoulders home, sore spent, 
While the chase followed up the scent. 

" Our shrift-father (and he alone 

Of all the household there 
Had skill in leechcraft,) was away 
When I reached home. I tossed, and lay 
Sullen with anguish the whole day. 

" For the day passed ere some one brought 

To mind that in the hunt 
Rode a young lord she named, long bred 
Among the priests, whose art (she said) 
Might chance to stand me in much stead. 



200 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" I bade them seek and summon him : 

But long ere this, the chase 
Had scattered, and he was not found. 
I lay in the same weary stound, 
Therefore, until the night came round. 

" It was dead night and near on twelve 

When tlie horse-tramp at length 
Beat up the echoes of the court : 
By then, my feverish breath was short 
With pain the sense could scarce support. 

" My fond nurse sitting near my feet 
Rose softly, — her lamp's flame 
Held in her hand, lest it should make 
My heated lids, in passing, ache ; 
And she passed softly, for my sake. 

" Returning soon, she brought the youth 
They spoke of Meek he seemed. 
But good knights held him of stout heart. 
He was akin to us in part, 
And bore our shield, but barred athwart. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 20] 

" I now remembered to have seen 

His face, and heard him praised 
For letter-lore and medicine, 
Seeing his youth was nurtured in 
Priests' knowledge, as mine own had been." 

The bride's voice did not weaken here, 

Yet by her sudden pause 
She seemed to look for questioning ; 
Or else (small need though) 'twas to bring 
Well to her mind the bygone thing. 

Her thought, long stagnant, stirred by speech. 

Gave her a sick recoil ; 
As, dip thy fingers through the green 
That masks a pool, — where they have been 
The naked depth is black between. 

Amelotte kept her knees ; her face 

Was shut within her hands, 
As it had been throughout the tale ; 
Her forehead's whiteness might avail 
Nothing to say if she were pale. 



202 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

Although the lattice had dropped loose, 

There was no wind ; the heat 
Being so at rest that Amelotte 
Heard far beneath the plunge and float 
Of a hound swimming in the moat. 

Some minutes since, two rooks had toiled 

Home to the nests that crowned 
Ancestral ash-trees. Through the glare 
Beating again, they seemed to tear 
With that thick caw the woof o' the air. 

But else, 'twas at the dead of noon 

Absolute silence ; all. 
From the raised bridge and guarded sconce 
To green-clad places of pleasaunce 
Where the long lake was white with swans. 

Amelotte spoke not any word 

Nor moved she once ; but felt 
Between her hands in narrow space 
Her own hot breath upon her face, 
And kept in silence the same place. 



-t 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 203 

Aloyse did not hear at all 

The sounds without. She heard 
The inward voice (past help obey'd) 
Which might not slacken or be stay'd, 
But urged her till the whole were said. 



Therefore she spoke again : ''■ That night 

But litde could be done : 
My foot, held in my nurse's hands, 
He swathed up heedfully in bands, 
And for my rest gave close commands. 

" I slept till noon, but an ill sleep 

Of dreams : through all that day 
IMy side was stiff and caught the breath ; 
Next day, such pain as sickeneth 
Took me, and I was nigh to death. 

" Life strove. Death claimed me for his own 

Through days and nights : but now 
'Twas the good father tended me. 
Having returned. Still, I did see 
The youth I spoke of constantly. 



4 



204 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" For he would with my brothers come 

To stay beside my couch, 
And fix my eyes against his own, 
Noting my pulse ; or else alone, 
To sit at gaze while I made moan. 



^'(Some nights I knew he kept the watch, 

Because my women laid 
The rushes thick for his steel shoes.) 
Through many days this pain did use 
The life God would not let me lose. 

*' At length, with my good nurse to aid, 

I could walk forth again : 
And still, as one who broods or grieves, 
At noons I'd meet him and at eves, 
With idle feet that drove the leaves. 

*' The day when I first walked alone 
Was thinned in grass and leaf. 
And yet a goodly day o' tlie year : 
The last bird's cry upon mine ear 
Left my brain weak, it was so clear. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 205 

" The tears were sharp within mine eyes ; 

I sat down, being glad, 
And wept ; but stayed the sudden flow 
Anon, for footsteps that fell slow ; 
'Twas that youth passed me, bowing low. 

'• He passed me without speech ; but when, 

At least an hour gone by, 
Rethreading the same covert, he 
Saw I was still beneath the tree, 
He spoke and sat him down with me. 

" Little we said; nor one heart heard 

Even what was said within ; 
And, faltering some farewell, I soon 
Rose up ; but then i' the autumn noon 
My feeble brain whirled like a swoon. 

" He made me sit. ' Cousin, I grieve 

Your sickness stays by you.' 
' I would,' said I, ' that you did err 
So grieving. I am wearier 
Than death, of the sickening dying year.' 



2o6 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" Pic answered : ' If your weariness 

Accepts a remedy, 
I hold one and can give it you.' 
I gazed : ' What ministers thereto, 
Be sure,' I said, 'that I will do.' 

" He went on quickly : — 'Twas a cure 

He had not ever named 
Unto our kin, lest they should stint 
Their favor, for some foolish hint 
Of wizardry or magic in't : 

*' But that if he were let to come 
Within my bower that night, 
(My women still attending me, 
He said, while he remain'd there,) he 
Could teach me the cure privily. 

'* I bade him come that night. He came ; 

But little in his speech 
Was cure or sickness spoken of, 
Only a passionate fierce love 
That clamored upon God above. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 207 

" My women wondered, leaning close 

Aloof. At mine own heart. 
I think great wonder was not stirr'd. 
I dared not listen, yet I heard 
His tangled speech, word within word. 

" He craved my pardon first, — all else 

Wild tumult. In the end 
He remained silent at my feet 
Fumbling the rushes. Strange quick heat 
Made all the blood of my life meet. 

" And lo ! I loved him. I but said, 

If he would leave me then. 
His hope some future might forecast. 
His hot lips stung my hand : at last 
My damsels led him forth in haste." 

The bride took breath to pause ; and turned 

Her gaze where Amelotte 
Knelt, — the gold hair upon her back 
Quite still in all its threads, — the track 
Of her still shadow sharp and black. 



2o8 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

That listening without sight had grown 

To stealthy dread ; and now 
That the one sound she had to mark 
Left her alone too, she was stark 
Afraid, as children in the dark. 

Her fingers felt her temples beat ; 

Then came that brain-sickness 
Which thinks to scream, and murmureth ; 
And pent between her hands, the breath 
Was damp against her face like death. 

Her arms both fell at once ; but when 

She gasped upon the light, 
Her sense returned. She would have pray'd 
To change whatever words still stay'd 
Behind, but felt there was no aid. 

So she rose up, and having gone 

Within the window's arch 
Once more, she sat there, all intent 
On torturing doubts, and once more bent 
To hear, in mute bewilderment. 



t 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 209 

But Aloyse still paused. Thereon 

Amelotte gathered voice 
In somewise from the torpid fear 
Coiled round her spirit. Low but clear 
She said : " Speak, sister ; for I hear." 

But Aloyse threw up her neck 

And called the name of God : — 
*' Judge, God, 'twixt her and me to-day ! 
She knows how hard this is to say, 
Yet will not have one word away." 

Her sister was quite silent. Then 

Afresh : — " Not she, dear Lord ! 
Thou be my judge, on Thee I call ! " 
She ceased, — her forehead smote the wall : 
" Is there a God," she said, " at all? " 

Amelotte shuddered at the soul, 

But did not speak. The pause 
Was long this time. At length the bride 
Pressed her hand hard against her side, 
And trembling between shame and pride 



2IO THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

Said by fierce effort : " From that niglit 

Often at nights we met : 
That night, his passion could but rave : 
The next, what grace his hps did crave 
I knew not, but I know I gave." 

Where Amelotte was sitting, all 

The light and warmth of day- 
Were so upon her without shade. 
That the thing seemed by sunshine made 
Most foul and wanton to be said. 



She would have questioned more, and known 

The whole truth at its worst, 
But held her silent, in mere shame 
Of day. 'Twas only these words came : — 
" Sister, thou hast not said his name." 

" Sister," quoth Aloyse, *' thou know'st 

His name. I said that he 
Was in a manner of our kin. 
Waiting the title he might win. 
They called him the Lord Urscelyn." 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 211 

The bridegroom's name, to Amelotte J^ 

Daily familiar, — heard | 

i 
Thus in this dreadful history, — ^ 

Was dreadful to her ; as might be | 

Thine own voice speaking unto thee. I 

\ 

The day's mid-hour was almost full ; | 

Upon the dial-plate \ 

The angel's sword stood near at One. j 

An hour's remaining yet ; the sun \ 

Will not decrease till all be done. \ 

Through the 'bride's lattice there crept in 

At whiles (from where the train 
Of minstrels, till the marriage-call, , 

Loitered at windows of the wall,) 
Stray lute-notes, sweet and musical. 

They clung in the green growths and moss 

Against the outside stone ; 
Low like dirge-wail or requiem 
They murmured, lost 'twixt leaf and stem : 
There was no wind to carry them. 



i- 



212 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

Amelotte gathered herself back 

Into the wide recess 
That the sun flooded : it o'erspread 
Like flame the hair upon her head 
And fringed her face with burning red. 

All things seemed shaken and at change : 

A silent place o' the hills 
She knew, into her spirit came : 
Within herself she said its name 
And wondered was it still the same. 

The bride (whom silence goaded) now 

Said strongly, — her despair 
By stubborn will kept underneath : — 
" Sister, 'twere well thou didst not breathe 
That curse of thine. Give me my wreath." 

** Sister," said Amelotte, " abide 

In peace. Be God thy judge, 
As thou hast said — not I. For me, 
I merely will thank God that he 
Whom thou hast loved loveth thee." 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 213 

Then Aloyse lay back, and laughed 

With wan lips bitterly, 
Saying, " Nay, thank thou God for this, — 
That never any soul like his 
Shall have its portion where love is." 

Weary of wonder, Amelotte 

Sat silent : she would ask 
No more, though all was unexplained : 
She was too weak ; the ache still pained 
Her eyes, — her forehead's pulse remained. 

The silence lengthened. Aloyse 

Was fain to turn her face 
Apart, to where the arras told 
Two Testaments, the New and Old, 
In shapes and meanings manifold. 

One solace that was gained, she hid. 

Her sister, from whose curse 
Her heart recoiled, had blessed instead : 
Yet would not her pride have it said 
How much the blessing comforted. 



214 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

Only, on looking round again 

After some while, the face 
Which from the arras turned away 
Was more at peace and less at bay 
With shame than it had been that day. 

She spoke right on, as if no pause 

Had come between her speech : 
" That year from warmth grew bleak and pass'd ; " 
She said ; "the days from first to last 
How slow, — woe's me ! the nights how fast ! 

" From first to last it was not known : 

My nurse, and of my train 
Some four or five, alone could tell 
What terror kept inscrutable : 
There was good need to guard it well. 

" Not the guilt only made the shame, 

But he was without land 
And born amiss. He had but come 
To train his youth here at our home, 
And, being man, depart therefrom. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 215 

" Of the whole time each single day 
Brought fear and great unrest : 
It seemed that all would not avail 
Some once, — that my close watch would fail, j 

And some sign, somehow, tell the tale. 

"The noble maidens that I knew, 

My fellows, oftentimes 
Midway in talk or sport, would look 
A wonder which my fears mistook, 
To see how I turned faint and shook. 

i " They had a game of cards, where each 
\ By painted arms might find 

i What knight she should be given to. 

\ Ever with trembling hand I threw 

\ Lest I should learn the thing I knew. 
\ 

\ " And once it came. And Aure d'Honvaulx 

Held up the bended shield 
And laughed : ' Gramercy for our share ! — 
If to our bridal we but fare 
To smutch the blazon that we bear ! ' 



2i6 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" But proud Denise de Villenbois 

Kissed me, and gave her wench 
The card, and said : ' If in these bowers 
You women play at paramours, 
You must not mix your game with ours.' 

" And one upcast it from her hand : 
' Lo ! see how high he'll soar ! ' 
But then their laugh was bitterest ; 
For the wind veered at fate's behest 
And blew it back into my breast. 

" Oh ! if I met him in the day 

Or heard his voice, — at meals 
Or at the Mass or through the hall, — 
A look turned towards me would appal 
My heart by seeming to know all. 

*' Yet I grew curious of my shame, 
And sometimes in the church, 
On hearing such a sin rebuked. 
Have held my girdle-glass unhooked 
To see how such a woman looked. 



THE BRIDE W PREL UDE. 2 1 7 

" But if at night he did not come, 

I lay all deadly cold 
To think they might have smitten sore 
And slain him, and as the night wore, 
His corpse be lying at my door. 

*' And entering or going forth. 

Our proud shield o'er the gate 
Seemed to arraign my shrinking eyes. 
With tremors and unspoken lies 
The year went past me in this wise. 

" About the spring of the next year 

An ailing fell on me : ■ 

(I had been stronger till the spring ;) \ 

'Twas mine old sickness gathering, ^ 

I thought ; but 'twas another thing. | 

" I had such yearnings as brought tears, } 

And a wan dizziness : r. 

Motion, like feeling, grew intense ; | 

Sight was a haunting evidence \ 

And sound a pang that snatched the sense. ! 



— -i 



2i8 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

"It now was hard on that great ill 
Which lost our wealth from us 
And all our lands. Accursed be 
The peevish fools of liberty 
Who will not let themselves be free ! 

" The Prince was fled into the west : 

A price was on his blood, 
But he was safe. To us his friends 
He left that ruin which attends 
The strife against God's secret ends. 

" The league dropped all asunder, — lord, 
Gentle and serf. Our house 
Was marked to fall. And a day came 
When half the wealth that propped our name 
Went from us in a wind of flame. 

" Six hours I lay upon the wall 

And saw it burn. But when 
It clogged the day in a black bed 
Of louring vapor, I was led 
Down to the postern, and we fled. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 219 

" But ere we fled, there was a voice 
Which I heard speak, and say 
That many of our friends, to shun 
Our fate, had left us and were gone. 
And that Lord Urscelyn was one. 

" That name, as was its wont, made sight 

And hearing whirl. I gave 
No heed but only to the name. 
I held my senses, dreading them. 
And was at strife to look the same. 

" We rode and rode. As the speed grew, 

The growth of some vague curse 
Swarmed in my brain. It seemed to me 
Numbed by the swiftness, but would be — 
That still — clear knowledge certainly. 

" Night lapsed. At dawn the sea was there 

And the sea-wind : afar 
The ravening surge was hoarse and loud. 
And underneath the dim dawn-cloud 
Each stalking wave shook like a shroud. 



220 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" From my drawn litter I looked out 

Unto the swarthy sea, 
And knew. That voice, which late had cross'd 
Mine ears, seemed with the foam uptoss'd : 
I knew that Urscelyn was lost. 

" Then I spake all : I turned on one 

And on the other, and spake : 
My curse laughed in me to behold 
Their eyes : I sat up, stricken cold, 
Mad of my voice till all was told. 

" Oh ! of my brothers, Hugues was mute, 
And Gilles was wild and loud, 
X And Raoul strained abroad his face, 

\ As if his gnashing wrath could trace 

I Even there the prey that it must chase. 

? " And round me murmured all our train, 
I Hoarse as the hoarse-tongued sea ; 

f Till Hugues from silence louring woke, 

j And cried : ' What ails the foolish folk ? 

\ Know ye not frenzy's lightning-stroke ? ' 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 22 

" But my stern father came to them 

And quelled them with his look, 
Silent and deadly pale. Anon 
I knew that we were hastening on, 
My litter closed and the light gone. 

" And I remember all that day 

The barren bitter wind 
Without, and the sea's moaning there 
That I first moaned with unaware, 
And when I knew, shook down my hair. 

" Few followed us or faced our flight : 

Once only I could hear, 
Far in the front, loud scornful words, 
And cries I knew of hostile lords, 
And crash of spears and grind of swords. 

" It was soon ended. On that day 

Before the light had changed 
We reached our refuge ; miles of rock 
Bulwarked for war ; whose strength might mock 
Sky, sea, or man, to storm or shock. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

** Listless and feebly conscious, I 

Lay far within the night 
Awake. The many pains incurred 
That day, — the whole, said, seen or heard, 
Stayed by in me as things deferred. 

" Not long. At dawn I slept. In dreams 

All was passed through afresh 
From end to end. As the morn heaved 
Towards noon, I, waking sore aggrieved, 
That I might die, cursed God, and lived. 

" Many days went, and I saw none 

Except my women. They 
Calmed their wan faces, loving me ; 
And when they wept, lest I should see, 
Would chaunt a desolate melody. 

" Panic unthreatened shook my blood 

Each sunset, all the slow 
Subsiding of the turbid light. 
I would rise, sister, as I might. 
And bathe my forehead through the night 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 223 

" To elude madness. The stark walls 

Made chill the mirk : and when 
We oped our curtains, to resume 
Sun-sickness after long sick gloom, 
The withering sea-wind walked the room. 



Through the gaunt windows the great gales 

Bore in the tattered clumps 
Of waif-weed and the tamarisk-boughs ; 
And sea-mews, 'mid the storm's carouse. 
Were flung, wild-clamoring, in the house. 

" My hounds I had not ; and my hawk, 

Which they had saved for me, 
Wanting the sun and rain to beat 
His wings, soon lay with gathered feet ; 
And my flowers faded, lacking heat. 

" Such still were griefs : for grief was still 

A separate sense, untouched 
Of that despair which had become 
My life. Great anguish could benumb 
My soul, — my heart was quarrelsome. 



V 



224 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 

" Time crept. Upon a day at length 

My kinsfolk sat with me : 
That which they asked was bare and plain : 
I answered : the whole bitter strain 
Was again said, and heard again. 

" Fierce Raoul snatched his sword, and turned 

The point against my breast. 
I bared it, smiling : ' To the heart 
Strike home,' I said ; ' another dart 
Wreaks hourly there a deadlier smart.' 

" 'Twas then my sire struck down the sword, 

And said with shaken lips : 
' She from whom all of you receive 
Your life, so smiled ; and I forgive.' 
Thus, for my mother's sake, I live. 

" But I, a mother even as she, 

Turned shuddering to the wall : 
For I said : ' Great God ! and wliat would I do, 
When to the sword, with the thing I knew, 
I offered not one life but two ! ' 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE, 225 

'• Then I fell back from them, and lay 

Outwearied. My tired sense 
Soon filmed and settled, and like stone 
I slept ; till something made me moan, 
And I woke up at night alone. 

" I woke at midnight, cold and dazed ; 

Because I found myself 
Seated upright, with bosom bare. 
Upon my bed, combing my hair, 
Ready to go, I knew not where. 

" It dawned light day, — the last of those 

Long months of longing days. 
That noon, the change was wrought on me 
In somewise, — nought to hear or see, — . 
Only a trance and agony." 

The bride's voice failed her, from no will 
To pause. The bridesmaid leaned. 
And where the window-panes were white, 
Looked for the day : she knew not quite 
If there were either day or night. 



226 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

It seemed to Aloyse that the whole 

Day's weight lay back on her 
Like lead. The hours that did remain 
Beat their dry wings upon her brain 
Once in mid-flight, and passed again. 

There hung a cage of burnt perfumes 

In the recess : but these, 
For some hours, weak against the sun, 
Had simmered in white ash. From One 
The second quarter was begun. 

They had not heard the stroke. The air, 

Though altered with no wind. 
Breathed now by pauses, so to say : 
Each breath was time that went away, — 
Each pause a minute of the day. 

r the almonry, the almoner. 

Hard by, had just dispensed 
Church-dole and march-dole. High and wide 
Now rose the shout of thanks, which cried 
On God that He should bless the bride. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 227 

Its echo thrilled within their feet, 

And in the furthest rooms 
Was heard, where maidens flushed and gay- 
Wove with stooped necks the wreaths alway 
Fair for the virgin's marriage-day. 

The mother leaned along, in thought 

After her child ; till tears. 
Bitter, not like a wedded girl's. 
Fell down her breast along her curls. 
And ran in the close work of pearls. 

The speech ached at her heart. She said : 

" Sweet Mary, do thou plead 
This hour with thy most blessed Son 
To let these shameful words atone. 
That I may die when I have done." 

The thought ached at her soul. Yet now : — 

''■ Itself —that life " (she said,) 
Out of my weary life — when sense 
Unclosed, was gone. What evil men's 
Most evil hands had borne it thence 



228 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

I " I knew, and cursed them. Still in sleep 

\ I have my child ; and pray 

\ To know if it indeed appear 

* As in my dream's perpetual sphere, 

\ That I — death reached — may seek it there. 



I " Sleeping, I wept ; though until dark 

I A fever dried mine eyes 

Kept open ; save when a tear might 
Be forced from the mere ache of sight. 
And I nursed hatred day and night. 



" Aye, and I sought revenge by spells ; 
R And vainly many a time 

\ Have laid my face into the lap 

\ Of a wise woman, and heard clap 

Her thunder, the fiend's juggling trap. 

" At length I feared to. curse them, lest 

From evil lips the curse 
Should be a blessing ; and would sit 
Rocking myself and stifling it 
With babbled jargon of no wit. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 229 

" But this was not at first : the days 

And weeks made frenzied months 
Before this came. My curses, pil'd 
Then with each hour unreconcil'd, 
Still wait for those who took my child." 

She stopped, grown fainter. " Amelotte, 

Surely," she said, " this sun 
Sheds judgment-fire from the fierce south : 
It does not let me breathe : the drouth 
Is like sand spread within my mouth." 

The bridesmaid rose. V the outer glare 
Gleamed her pale cheeks, and eyes 
Sore troubled ; and aweary weigh'd 
Her brows just lifted out of shade ; 
And the light jarred within her head. 

'Mid flowers fair-heaped there stood a bowl | 

With water. She therein - \ 

Through eddying bubbles slid a cup, \ 

And offered it, being risen up, \ 

\ 
Close to her sister's mouth, to sup. i 

! 



+- 



230 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

The freshness dwelt upon her sense, 

Yet did not the bride drink ; 
But she dipped in her hand anon 
And cooled her temples ; and all wan 
With lids that held their ache, went on. 

" Through those dark watches of my woe, 
Time, an ill plant, had waxed 

Apace. That year was finished. Dumb 
f And blind, life's wheel with earth's had come 

I Whirled round : and we might seek our home 



" Our wealth was rendered back, with wealth 

Snatched from our foes. The house 
Had more than its old strength and fame : 
But still 'neath the fair outward claim 
/rankled, — a fierce core of shame. 

" It chilled me from their eyes and lips 

Upon a night of those 
First days of triumph, as I gazed 
Listless and sick, or scarcely raised 
My face to mark the sports they praised. 



t 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 231 

" The endless changes of the dance 

Bewildered me : the tones 
Of lute and cithern struggled tow'rds 
Some sense ; and still in the last chords 
The music seemed to sing wild words. 



" My shame possessed me in the light 

And pageant, till I swooned. 
But from that hour I put my shame 
From me, and cast it over them 
By God's command and in God's name 

" For my child's bitter sake. O thou 

Once felt against my heart 
With longing of the eyes, — a pain 
Since to my heart for ever, — then 
Beheld not, and not felt again ! " 

She scarcely paused, continuing : — 

" That year drooped weak in March ; 
And April, finding the streams dry. 
Choked, with no rain, in dust : the sky 
Shall not be fainter this July. 



232 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" Men sickened ; beasts lay without strength ; 
if 
1^ The year died in the land. 

I But I, already desolate, 

I Said merely, sitting down to wait, — 

\ 'The seasons change and Time wears late.' 



\ " For I had my hard secret told, 

I In secret, to a priest ; 

I With him I communed ; and he said 

I 

8 The world's soul, for its sins, were sped. 

\ And the sun's courses numbered. 

5 
? 

? 

; *^ The year slid like a corpse afloat : 
\ None trafficked, — who had bread 

I Did eat. That year our legions, come 

i Thinned from the place of war, at home 

\ Found busier death, more burdensome. 

" Tidings and rumors came with them, 
The first for months. The chiefs 
Sat daily at our board, and in 
Their speech were names of friend and kin 
One day they spoke of Urscelyn. 



THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 233 

" The words were light, among the rest : 

Quick glance my brothers sent 
To sift the speech ; and I, struck through, 
Sat sick and giddy in full view : 
Yet did none gaze, so many knew. 

" Because in the beginning, much 

Had caught abroad, through them 
That heard my clamor on the coast : 
But two were hanged ; and then the most 
Held silence wisdom, as thou know'st. 

" That year the convent yielded thee 

Back to our home ; and thou 
Then knew'st not how I shuddered cold 
To kiss thee, seeming to enfold 
To my changed heart myself of old. 

'' Then there was showing thee the house. 

So many rooms and doors ; 
Thinking the while how thou would'st start 
If once I flung the doors apart 
Of one dull chamber in my heart. 



234 THE BRIDE'S PRELUDE. 

" And yet I longed to open it ; 

And often in that year 
Of plague and want, when side by side 
We've knelt to pray with them that died. 
My prayer was, ' Show her what I hide ! ' " 

End of Part I. 



LYRICS. 



+- 



237 



LOVE-LILY. 

Between the hands, between the brows, 

Between the lips of Love-Lily, 
A spirit is born whose birth endows 

My blood with fire to burn through me ; 
Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, 

Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, 
At whose least touch my color flies, 

And whom my life grows faint to hear. 

Within the voice, within the heart. 

Within the mind of Love- Lily, 
A spirit is born who hfts apart 

His tremulous wings and looks at me ; 
Who on my mouth his finger lays, 

And shows, while whispering lutes confer, 
That Eden of Love's watered ways 

Whose winds and spirits worship her. 



238 LOVE-LILY. 

Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, 

Kisses and words of Love- Lily, — 
Oh ! bid me with your joy rejoice 

Till riotous longing rest in me ! 
Ah ! let not hope be still distraught, 

But find in her its gracious goal, 
Whose speech Truth knows not fi-om her thought 

Nor Love her body from her soul. 



239 



FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED. 

Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er 

It be, a holy place : 
The thought still brings my soul such grace 

As morning meadows wear. 

Whether it still be small and light, 

A maid's who dreams alone. 
As from her orchard-gate the moon 

Its ceiling showed at night ; 

Or whether, in a shadow dense 

As nuptial hymns invoke. 
Innocent maidenhood awoke 

To married innocence : 

There still the thanks unheard await 
The unconscious gift bequeathed : 

For there my soul this hour has breathed 
An air inviolate. 



240 



PLIGHTED PROMISE. 

In a soft-complexioned sky, 
Fleeting rose and kindling gray, 

Have you seen Aurora fly 
At the break of day ? 
So my maiden, so my plighted may, 

Blushing cheek and gleaming eye 
Lifts to look my way. 

Where the inmost leaf is stirred 
With the heart-beat of the grove, 

Have you heard a hidden bird 
Cast her note above ? 
So my lady, so my lovely love, 

Echoing Cupid's prompted word, 
Makes a tune thereof. 



PLIGHTED PROMISE. 241 

Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height, 
In the moon-rack's ebb and tide, 

Venus leap forth burning white, 
Dian pale and hide ? 
So my bright breast-jewel, so my bride, 

One sweet night, when fear takes flight, 
Shall leap against my side. 



242 



SUDDEN LIGHT. 

I HAVE been here before, 

But when or how I cannot tell : 
I know the grass beyond the door, 
The sweet keen smell, 
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. 

You have been mine before, — 

How long ago I may not know : 
But just when at that swallow's soar 
Your neck turned so, 
Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of yore. 

Has this been thus before ? 

And shall not thus time's eddying flight 
Still with our lives our love restore 
In death's despite. 
And day and night yield one delight once more ? 



243 



A LITTLE WHILE. 

A LITTLE while a little love 

The hour yet bears for thee and me 
Who have not drawn the veil to see 

If still our heaven be lit above. 

Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, 
Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone ; 

And I have heard the night- wind cry 
And deemed its speech mine own. 

A little while a little love 

The scattering autumn hoards for us 
Whose bower is not yet ruinous 

Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. 

Only across the shaken boughs 

We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, 

And deep in both our hearts they rouse 
One wail for thee and me. 



i 

- 244 A LITTLE WHILE. 

A little while a little love 

i May yet be ours who have not said 

S The word it makes our eyes afraid 

[ To know that each is thinking of. 

j Not yet the end : be our lips dumb 

I In smiles a little season yet : 

r I'll tell thee, when the end is come, 

I How we may best forget. 



245 



THE SONG OF THE BOWER. 

Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, 

Thou whom I long for, who longest for me ? 
Oh ! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, 

Love's tliat is fettered as Love's that is free. 
Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, 

Oh ! the last time, and the hundred before : 
Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, 

Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. 

Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, 

What does it find there that knows it again ? 
There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower. 

Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. 
Ah ! yet what shelter is still shed above it, — 

What waters still image its leaves torn apart ? 
Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it. 

And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart. 

What were my prize, could I enter thy bower. 
This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn ? 



246 THE SONG OF THE BOJi'ER. 

I^argc lovely arms and a neck like a tower, 
Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. 

Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder !) 
Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day ; 

]\Iy hand round thy neck and thy hand on niy shoulder, 
My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away. 

What is it keeps me afar from thy bower, — 

My spirit, my body, so foin to be there? 
Waters engulfing or fires that devour? — 

Earth heaped against me or death in tlie air? 
Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity. 

The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell ; 
Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, 

The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell. 

Shall I not one day remember thy bower, 

One day when all days are one day to me? — 
Thinking, '' I stirred not, and yet had the power ! " — 

Yearning, '' Ah God, if again it might be ! " 
Peace, peace ! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, 

So dimly so few steps in front of n:iy feet, — 
Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . 

Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet? 



247 



PENUMBRA. 

I DID not look upon her eyes, 
(Though scarcely seen, with no surprise, 
'Mid many eyes a single look,) 
Because they should not gaze rebuke. 
At night, from stars in sky and brook. 

I did not take her by the hand, 
(Though little was to understand 
From touch of hand all friends might take,) 
Because it should not prove a flake 
Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. 

I did not listen to her voice, 

(Though none had noted, where at choice 

All might rejoice in listening,) 

Because no such a thing should cling 

In the wood's moan at evening. 



248 PENUMBRA. 

I did not cross lier shadow once, 
(Though from the hollow west the sun's 
Last shadow runs along so far,) 
Because in June it should not bar 
My ways, at noon when fevers are. 

They told me she was sad that day, 
(Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay, 
Sooner than they, did register ?) 
And my heart leapt and wept to her. 
And yet I did not speak nor stir. 

So shall the tongues of the sea's foam 
(Though many voices therewith come 
From drowned hope's home to cry to me,) 
Bewail one hour the more, when sea 
And wind are one with memory. 



249 



A NEW-YEAR'S BURDEN. 

Along the grass sweet airs are blown 

Our way this day in Spring. | 
Of all the songs that we have known 
Now which one shall we sing ? 

Not that, my love, ah no ! — • I 

Not this, my love ? why, so ! — i 

Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go. I 

The grove is all a pale frail mist, 3 

The new year sucks the sun. j 

Of all the kisses that we kissed j 

Now which shall be the one ? | 

Not that, my love, ah no ! — I 

Not this, my love ? — heigh-ho | 

For all the sweets that all the winds can blow ! 1 

The branches cross above our eyes, | 

) 

The skies are in a net : I 

And what's the thing beneath the skies | 

We two would most forget? =? 

Not birth, my love, no, no, — | 

Not death, my love, no, no, — i 

The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. I 



250 



EVEN SO. 

• So it is, my dear. 
All such things touch set^ret strings 
For heavy hearts to hear. 
So it is, my dear. 

Very like indeed : 
Sea and sky, afar, on high, 

Sand and strewn seaweed, — 
Very like indeed. 

But the sea stands spread 
As one wall with the flat skies, 
Where the lean black craft like flies 

Seem well-nigh stagnated, 

Soon to drop off dead. 

Seemed it so to us 
When I was thine and thou wast mine. 
And all these things were thus. 
But all our world in us ? 

Could we be so now ? 
Not if all beneath heaven's pall 
Lay dead but I and tliou. 
Could we be so now ! 



251 



THE WOODSPURGE. 

The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, 
Shaken out dead from tree and hill : 
I had walked on at the wind's will, — 
I sat now, for the wind was still. 

Between my knees my forehead was, — 
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas ! 
My hair was over in the grass. 
My naked ears heard the day pass. 

My eyes, wide open, had the run ' 

Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; 

Among those few, out of the sun, 

The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one. 

From perfect grief there need not be 
Wisdom or even memory : 
One thing then learnt remains to me, — 
The woodspurge has a cup of three. 



252 



THE HONEYSUCKLE. 

I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where 

The hedge on high is quick with thorn, 
And cHmbing for the prize, was torn, 

And fouled my feet in quag-water ; 
And by the thorns and by the wind 
The blossom that I took was thinn'd, 

And yet I found it sweet and fair. 

Thence to a richer growth I came, 
i Where, nursed in mellow intercourse, 

The honeysuckles sprang by scores, 
Not harried like my single stem. 

All virgin lamps of scent and dew. 

So from my hand that first I threw, 
Yet plucked not any more of them. 



253 



A YOUNG FIR-WOOD. 

These little firs to-day are things 
To clasp into a giant's cap, 
Or fans to suit his lady's lap. 

From many winters many springs 

Shall cherish them in strength and sap, 
Till they be marked upon the map, 

A wood for the wind's wanderings. 

All seed is in the sower's hands : 

And what at first was trained to spread 
Its shelter for some single head, — 

Yea, even such fellowship of wands, — 
May hide the sunset, and the shade 
Of its great multitude be laid 

Upon the earth and elder sands. 



254 



THE SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider, the sea's listless chime : 
Time's self it is, made audible, — 
The murmur of the earth's own shell. 

Secret continuance sublime 

Is the sea's end : our sight may pass 
No furlong further. Since time was. 

This sound hath told the lapse of time. 

No quiet, which is death's, — it hath 
The mournfulness of ancient life, 
Enduring always at dull strife. 

As the world's heart of rest and wrath. 
Its painful pulse is in the sands. 
Last utterly, the whole sky stands, 

Gray and not known, along its path. 

Listen alone beside the sea, 

Listen alone among the woods ; 
Those voices of twin solitudes 



J. 



THE SEA-LIMITS. 255 

Shall have one sound alike to thee : 

Hark where the murmurs of thronged men 
Surge and sink back and surge again, — 

Still the one voice of wave and tree. 

Gather a shell from the strown beach 

And listen at its lips : they sigh 

The same desire and mystery, 
The echo of the whole sea's speech. 

And all mankind is thus at heart 

Not anything but what thou art : 
And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 



, 



SONNETS 



4 



SOATIVETS. 259 



FOR 

*'OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS" 
By Leonardo da Vinci. 

Mother, is this the darkness of the end, 

Tlie Shadow of Death ? and is that outer sea 
Infinite imminent Eternity? 

And does the death-pang by man's seed sustain'd 

In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend 
Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he 
Blesses the dead with his hand silently 

To his long day which hours no more offend? 

Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, 

Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls 

Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. 
Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, 
Whose peace abides in the dark avenue 
Amid the bitterness of things occult. 



26o SONNETS, 



FOR 

A VENETIAN PASTORAL 

By Giorgione. 
{In the Loiwre.) 

Water, for anguish of the solstice : — nay. 
But dip the vessel slowly, — nay, but lean 
And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in 

Reluctant. Hush ! Beyond all depth away 

The heat lies silent at the brink of day : 
Now the hand trails upon the viol-string 
That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, 

Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray 

Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep 
And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass 
Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — 

Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, 
Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, — 
Life touching lips with Immortality. 



SONNETS. 261 



FOR 

AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN 

By Andrea Mantegna. 
{In the Louvre.) 

Scarcely, I think ; yet it indeed fnay be 

The meaning reached him, when this music rang 
Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, 

And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. 

But I believe that, leaning tow'rds them, he 
Just felt their hair carried across his face 
As each girl passed him ; nor gave ear to trace 

How many feet ; nor bent assuredly 

His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought 
To know the dancers. It is bitter glad 
Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, 
A secret of the wells of Life : to wit : — 
The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense it had 

With all, though the mind's labor run to nought. 



262 SONNETS. 



FOR 

RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA" 

By Ingres. 



A REMOTE sky, prolonged to the sea's brim : 
One rock-point standing buffeted alone, 
Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, 

Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim : 

A knight, and a winged creature bearing him. 
Reared at the rock : a woman fettered there. 
Leaning into the hollow with loose hair 

And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. 

Ihe sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt : 
Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind 

With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem 
Thrills in the roaring of those jaws : behind, 
That evil length of body chafes at fault. 

She doth not hear nor see — she knows of them. 



SONNETS. 263 



Clench thine eyes now, — 'tis the last instant, girl : 
Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take 
One breath for all : thy life is keen awake, — 

Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl 

Of its foam drenched thee ? — or the waves that curl 
And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache ? 
Or was it his the champion's blood to flake 

Thy flesh? — or thine own blood's anointing, girl? 

Now, silence : for the sea's is such a sound 
As irks not silence ; and except the sea. 

All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease 
To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her : and she. 
Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, 
Again a woman in her nakedness. 



264 SONNETS. 



s 

FOR 

"THE WINE OF CIRCE." 

By Edward Burne Jones. 

\ Dusk-haired and gold-robed o'er the golden wine 

She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, 
Sink the black drops ; while, lit with fragrant flame, 

Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine. 

Doth Helios here with Hecate combine 

(O Circe, thou their votaress?) to proclaim 
For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name, 

Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign? 



Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee 
Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore, 

Wait ; who with them in new equality 

To-night shall echo back the sea's duU^roar 
With a vain wail from passion's tide-strown shore 

Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea. 



\ 

I 

SONNETS, 265 \ 



MARY'S GIRLHOOD. 

(^Fo7' a Pictiu-e.) 

This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect 

God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she 
Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. 

Unto God's will she brought devout respect, 

Profound simplicity of intellect, 

And supreme patience. From her mother's knee 
Faithful and hopeful ; wise in charity ; 

Strong in grave peace ; in pity circumspect. 

So held she through her girlhood ; as it were 
An angel-watered lily, that near God 

Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home, 
She woke in her white bed, and had no fear 
At all, — yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed : 
Because the fulness of the time was come. 



J 



266 SONNETS, 



THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY. 
{Fo)' a Drawing.^) 

Here meet together the prefiguring day 

And day prefigured. " Eating, thou shalt stand, 
Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, 

With blood-stained door and lintel," — did God say 

By Moses' mouth in ages passed away. 

And now, where this poor household doth comprise 
At Paschal-Feast two kindred families, — 

Lo ! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. 

The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, 
What shadow of Death the Boy's fair brow subdues 
I Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained 

\ By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes 

\ He deemed himself not worthy to unloose ; 

I And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained. 

' 1 The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a bowl of 

♦ blood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts and lintel. 

^ Joseph has brought the lamb, and Elizabeth lights the pyre. The 

shoes which John fastens, and the bitter herbs which Mary is 

gathering form part of the ritual. 



SONNETS. 267 



MARY MAGDALENE 

AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE. 

{^Fo?' a Drawing}^ 

"Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair? 

Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, lips, and cheek. 

Nay, not this house, — that banquet-house we seek ; 

See how they kiss and enter ; come thou there. | 

This delicate day of lov^e we two will share \ 

\ 
Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. !• 

What, sweet one, — hold'st thou still the foolish freak ? 

Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair." : 

" Oh loose me ! See'st thou not my Bridegroom's face ^: 

That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss, I 

My hair, my tears He craves to-day : — an^l oh ! ; 

What words can tell what other day and place • 

Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His? : 

He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me 2:0 ! " ; 

1 In the drawing Mary has left a procession of revellers, and is 
ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she sees 
Christ. Her lover has followed her and is trying to turn her back. 



i. 



268 SONNETS. 

CASSANDRA. 

{Fo?- a Drawing}) 

Rend, rend thine hair, Cassandra r he will go. 

Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry 
From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky. 

See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe : — 

He most whom that fair woman arms, with show 
Of wrath on her bent brows ; for in this place 
This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face 

The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know. 

What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache, 
Save for her Hector's form and step ; as tear 
On tear make salt the warm last kiss he gave ? 
He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily 
Like crows above his crest, and at his ear 
Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save. 

1 The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her kintlnd, 
as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are on the phuform 
of a fortress, from which the Trojan troops are marching out. Helen 
is arming Paris ; Priam soothes Hecuba ; and Andromache holds the 
child to her bosom. 



SONNETS, 269 



n. 

" O Hector, gone, gone, gone ! O Hector, thee 
Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd ; 
And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst 

Crave from thy veins the blood of victory. 

Lo ! long upon our hearth the brand had we, 
Lit for the roof-tree's ruin : and to-day 
The ground-stone quits the wall, — the wind hath 
way, — 

And higher and higher the wings of fire are free. 

O Paris, Paris ! O thou burning brand, 
Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, 

Lighting thy race to shipwreck ! Even that hand 
Wherewith she took thine apple let her close 
Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows 

Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land." 



270 SONNETS. 



VENUS VERTICORDIA. 
i^For a picture.) 

She hath the apple in her hand for thee, 
Yet ahiiost in her heart would hold it back ; 
She muses, with her eyes upon the track 

Of that which in thy spirit they can see. 

Haply, " Behold, he is at peace," saith she ; 
" Alas ! the apple for his lips, — tlie dart 
That follows its brief sweetness to his heart, — 

The wandering of his feet perpetually ! " 

A little space her glance is still and coy ; 
But if she give the fruit that works her spell, 

Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. 

Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell, 
And her far seas moan as a single shell, 

And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy. 



SONNETS. 271 



PANDORA. \ 

{For a picture, ) 

What of the end, Pandora? Was it thine, 

The deed that set these fiery pinions free ? 

Ah ! wherefore did the Olympian consistory \ 

In its own likeness make thee half divine ? \ 

Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign t> 

For ever ? and the mien of Pallas be \ 

A deadly thing ? and that all men might see 1 

In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine ? 

What of the end ? These beat their wings at will. 
The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill, — 

Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. 
Aye, clench the casket now ! Whither they go 
Thou mayst not dare to think : nor canst thou know 

If Hope still pent there be alive or dead. 



272 SONNETS. 



ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN 
NATIONS. 

Not that the earth is changing, O my God ! 

Nor that the seasons totter in their walk, — 

Not that the virulent ill of act and talk 
Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod, — 
Not therefore are we certain that the rod 

Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world ; though now 

Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, 
So many kings : — not therefore, O my God ! — 

But because Man is parcelled out in men 
To-day ; because, for any wrongful blow, 
No man not stricken asks, " I would be told 
Why thou dost thus ; " but his heart whispers then, 
" He is he, I am I." By this we know 
That our earth falls asunder, being old. 



SONNETS. 273 



ON THE ''VITA NUOVA" OF DANTE. 

As he that loves oft looks on the dear form 
And guesses how it grew to womanhood, 
And gladly would have watched the beauties bud 

And the mild fire of precious life wax warm : — 

So I, long bound within the threefold charm 
Of Dante's love sublimed to heavenly mood, 
Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude, 

How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm. 

At length within this book I found portrayed 

Newborn that Paradisal Love of his. 
And simple like a child ; with whose clear aid 

I understood. To such a child as this, 
Christ, charging well his chosen ones, forbade 

Offence ; " for lo ! of such my kingdom is.'* 



274 SOJVJVETS. 



DANTIS TENEBR^. 

(/// Memory of my Father.^ 

And did'st thou know indeed, when at the font 
Together with thy name thou gav'st me his, 
That also on thy son must Beatrice 

Dedine her eyes according to her wont, 

Accepting me to be of those that haunt 
The vale of magical dark mysteries 
Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies 

And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt 

Trembles in music ? This is that steep land 
Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze 
Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new heiglit 

Seem piled to climb. These things I understand : 
For here, where day still soothes my lifted face. 
On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night. 



SONATETS, 275 



BEAUTY AND THE BIRD. 

She fluted with her mouth as when one sips, 
And gently waved her golden head, inclined 
Outside his cage close to the window-blind ; 

Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips, 

Piped low to her of sweet companionships. 

And when he made an end, some seed took she 
And fed him from her tongue, which rosily 

Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips. 

And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue 
The Blessed INIary laid, when he was dead, 

A grain, — who straightway praised her name in song 
Even so, when she, a little lightly red. 

Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng 
Of inner voices praise her golden head. 



276 SONNETS, 



A MATCH WITH THE MOON. 

Weary already, weary miles to-night 

I walked for bed : and so, to get some ease, 
I dogged the flying moon with similes. 
And like a wisp she doubled on my sight 
In ponds ; and caught in tree-tops like a kite ; 
And in a globe of film all liquorish 
Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ; — 
Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height 
Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent 
My wizened shadow craning round at me, 
And jeered, " So, step the measure, — one two 
three ! " — 
And if I faced on her, looked innocent. 
But just at parting, halfway down a dell. 
She kissed me for good-night. So you'll not tell. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



279 



THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. 

(^Fran^ois Villon, 1450.) 

Tell me now in what hidden way is 

Lady Flora the lovely Roman ? 
Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 

Neither of them the fairer woman ? 

Where is Echo, beheld of no man, 
Only heard on river and mere, — 

She whose beauty was more than human? . . 
But where are the snows of yester-year? 

Where's H^loise, the learned nun, 
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween. 

Lost manhood and put priesthood on ? 
(From Love he won such dule and teen !) 
And where, I pray you, is the Queen 

Who willed that Buridan should steer 

Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ? . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year ? 



28o THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. 

White Queen Blanche, Hke a queen of hlies, 
With a voice like any mermaiden, — 

Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 

And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — 
And that good Joan whom Englishmen 

At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — 
Mother of God, where are they then ? . . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year ? 

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 

Where they are gone, nor yet this year, 

Save with thus much for an overword, — 
But where are the snows of yester-year? 



28l 



TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY. 

{Francois Villon.) 

Death, of thee do I make my moan, 
Who hadst my lady away from me, 
Nor wilt assuage thine enmity 

Till with her life thou hast mine own ; 

For since that hour my strength has flown. 
Lo ! what wrong was her life to thee, 

Death? 

Two we were, and the heart was one ; 

Which now being dead, dead I must be, 

Or seem alive as lifelessly 
As in the choir the painted stone, 

Death ! 



2b2 



HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY. 

{Francois Villon.) 

Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal 

Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,— 

I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call, 
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, 
Albeit in nought I be commendable. 

But all mine undeserving may not mar 

Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are ; 
Without the which (as true words testify) 

No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far. 
Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 

Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, 
And to me graceless make Him gracious. 

Sad Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss. 
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, 
Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus 



HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY. 283 

Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. 
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass 

(Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby !) 
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. 

Even in this faith I choose to live and die. 

A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, 
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter- lore. 

Within my parish-cloister I behold 

A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, 
And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore : 

One bringeth fear, the other joy to me. 

That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be, — 
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I ; 

And that which faith desires, that let it see. 
For in this faith I choose to live and die. 

O excellent Virgin Princess ! thou didst bear 
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter. 
Who even of this our weakness craved a share 

And for our sake stooped to us from on high, 
Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. 
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare. 

And in this faith I choose to live and die. 



284 



JOHN OF TOURS. 

{Old Freiich:) 

John of Tours is back with peace, 
But he comes home ill at ease. 

" Good-morrow, mother." " Good-morrow, son ; 
Your wife has borne you a little one." 

" Go now, mother, go before, 
Make me a bed upon the floor ; 

" Very low your foot must fall. 
That my wife hear not at all." 

As it neared the midnight toll, 
John of Tours gave up his soul. 

" Tell me now, my mother my dear. 
What's the crying that I hear? " 

" Daughter, it's the children wake 
Crying with their teeth that ache." 







JOHN OF TOURS. 285 

" Tell me though, my mother my dear, 
What's the knocking that I hear? " 

" Daughter, it's the carpenter 
Mending planks upon the stair." 

" Tell me too, my mother my dear, 
What's the singing that I hear?" 

" Daughter, it's the priests in rows 
Going round about our house." 

" Tell me then, my mother my dear, 
What's the dress that I should wear?" 

" Daughter, any reds or blues, 
But the black is most in use." 

" Nay, but say, my mother my dear, 
Why do you fall weeping here?" 

" Oh ! the truth must be said, — 
It's that John of Tours is dead." 

" Mother, let the sexton know 
That the grave must be for two ; 

" Aye, and still have room to spare. 
For you must shut the baby there." 



186 



MY FATHER'S CLOSE. 

{Old French.) 

Inside my fatlier's close, 

(Fly away O my heart away !) 
Sweet apple-blossom blows 
So sweet. 

Three kings' daughters fair, 

(Fly away O my heart away !) 
They lie below it there 
So sweet. 

" Ah ! " says the eldest one, 

(Fly away O my heart away !) 
" I think the day's begun 
So sweet." 



MV FATHERS CLOSE. 287 

" Ah ! " says the second one, 

(Fly away O my heart away !) 
" Far off I hear the drum 
So sweet." 

" Ah ! " says the youngest one, 

(Fly away O my heart away !) 
" It's my true love, my own, 

So sweet. - 

" Oh ! if he fight and win," i 

(Fly away O my heart away !) | 

I 
" I keep my love for him, 

So sweet : 

Oh ! let him lose or win. 

He hath it still complete." 



288 



i 

\ BEAUTY. 



{A combi7iation from Sappho^ 



Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost 

bough, 
A-top on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers 

forgot, somehow, — 
Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it 

till now. 

II. 

3 

i Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is 

5! found, 

?: Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear 

and wound, 
Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground. 



•J 




\ 










289 






YOUTH AND LORDSHIP.^ 


i 


. 


■ 

(^Italian Street-Song^ 




My young lord's the lover 






Of earth and sky above, 






Of youth's sway and youth's play, 






Of songs and flowers and love. 






1 GIOVENTU E SIGNORIA. 






E Giovix\E il signore, 


Vezzose, giojose, 






Ed ama molte cose, — 


Tenenti all' amore. 






I canti, le rose, 








La forza e I'amore. 


Prendilo in braccio 
Adesso mai; 




1- 


Quel che piu vuole 


Per pill mi taccio. 






Ancor non osa : 


Che tu lo sai ; 






Ahi pill che il sole, 


Bacialo e I'avrai, 






Piu ch' ogni rosa. 


Ma non lo dire. 






La cara cosa, 








Donna a gioire. 


E giovine il signore. 




^ 




Ed ama ben le cose 




". 


E giovine il signore. 


Che Amor nascose, 






Ed ama quelle cose 


Che mostragli Amore. 


1 


* 


Che ardor dispose 




: 




In cuore all' amore. 


Deh trionfando 








Non fame pruova; 






Bella fanciulla, 


Ahime ! che quando 






Guardalo in vise; 


Gioja pill giova, 






Non mancar nulla, 


AUor si trova 






Motto sorriso; 


Presso al tinire. 






Ma viso a viso 








Guarda a gradire. 


^ giovine il signore, 






^ 


Ed ama tante cose. 






E giovine il signore, 


Le rose, le spose, 






Ed ama tutte cose, 


Quante gli dona Amore. 













290 YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. 

Yet for love's desire 

Green youth lacks the daring ; 

Though one dream of fire, 
All his hours ensnaring, 
Burns the boy past bearing, — 

That dream that girls inspire. 

My young lord's the lover 
Of every burning thought 

That Love's will, that Love's skill 
Within his breast has wrought. 



5 Lovely girl, look on him 

• Soft as music's measure ; 

Yield him, when you've won him, 

5 Joys and toys at pleasure ; 

I 

I But to win your treasure, 



I Sofdy look upon him. 

i 

\ 

f My young lord's the lover 
\ Of every tender grace 

i That woman, to woo man, 



i- 



Can wear in form or face. 



YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. 291 

Take him to your bosom 

Now, girl, or never ; 
Let not your new blossom 

Of sweet kisses sever ; 

Only guard for ever 
Your boast within your bosom. 

My young lord's the lover 

Of every secret thing. 
Love-hidden, love-bidden 

This day to banqueting. 



Lovely girl, with vaunting 
Never tempt to-morrow : 

From all shapes enchanting 
Any joy can borrow. 
Still the spectre Sorrow 

Rises up for haunting. 

And now my lord's the lover 
Of ah ! so many a sweet, — 

Of roses, of spouses. 

As many as love may greet. 



292 



THE LEAF. 

{Leopardi.) 

" Torn from your parent bough, 
Poor leaf all withered now, 

Where go you? " " I cannot tel 
Storm-stricken is the oak-tree 

Where I grew, whence I fell. 
Changeful continually, 

The zephyr and hurricane 
Since that day bid me flee 
From deepest woods to the lea, 

From highest hills to the plain. 
Where the wind carries me 

I go without fear or grief : 
I I go whither each one goes, — 

I Thither the leaf of the rose 

And thither the laurel-leaf." 



293 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. 

(^Dante.) 

****** 

When I made answer, I began : " Alas ! 

How many sweet thoughts and how much desire 
Led these two onward to the dolorous pass ! " 

Then turned to them, as who would fain inquire, 
And said : " Francesca, these thine agonies 

Wring tears for pity and grief that they inspire : 
But tell me, — in the season of sweet sighs, 

When and what way did Love instruct you so 
That he in your vague longings made you wise ? 

Then she to me : '' There is no greater woe 
Than the remembrance brings of happy days 

In misery ; and this thy guide dpth know. 
But if the first beginnings to retrace 

Of our sad love can yield thee solace here, 
So will I be as one that weeps and says. 

One day we read, for pastime and sweet cheer, 



294 FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. 

Of Lancelot, how he found Love tyrannous : 

We were alone and without any fear. 
Our eyes were drawn together, reading thus, 

Full oft, and still our cheeks would pale and glow ; 
But one sole point it was that conquered us. 

For when we read of that great lover, how 
He kissed the smile which he had longed to win, — 

Then he whom nought could sever from me now 
For ever, kissed my mouth, all quivering. 

A Galahalt was the book, and he that writ : 
Upon that day we read no more therein." 

At the tale told, while one soul uttered it, 
The other wept : a pang so pitiable 

That I was seized, like death, in swooning-fit, 
And even as a dead body falls, I fell. 



'Remember Jacob AbbotVs sensible rule to give children something that 

they are growing up to, not away from, and keep down the 

stock of children's books to the very best." 



CLASSIC JUYENILES 

BY JACOB ABBOTT, 

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not be left out of the libraries 
of boys and girls." — From 
"Books for the Young," com- 
/li/ed by C. M. Ileivins, Librae 
' r'lan of the Hartford Library 
^liaJlill Association. 




ABBOTT'S AMERICAN HISTORIES FOR 

Illustrated by Darley, Herrick 

I. Aboriginal America. 

II. Discovery of America. 

III. The Southern Colonies. 

IV. The Northern Colonies. 



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Chapiu, and others. 12nio ^10.00 

V. Wars of the Colonies. 
VI. The Revolt of the Colonies. 
VII. The War of the Revolution. 
VIII. George W^ashington. 



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August and Elvie. 



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JUNO STORIES. 4 vols 
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4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 

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Illustrated. IGmo 



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ordinary mention in a journal that aims to be a chronicle of educational progress 
in our country. For a long generation, now quite fifty years, these charming and 
thoroughly wholesome little volumes have been appearing, year by year, for the 
entertaimnent and instruction of thousands of children of all ages ; including a 
great many people who have found the heart of their childhood renewed, under 
gray hairs, as they glanced over the homely adventures of Rollo, or the straight- 
forward stories of Jonas, and saw the old world of the Ncav England of half a 
century ago once more around them. In 1834, Jacob Abbott, a young minister 
of Roxbury, Mass., wrote the first simple story of the series which, under the 
title of the ' Rollo Books,' afterwards grew to the three dozen handsome juve- 
niles now republished. Without striking features of any sort, with no glare of 
unusual brilliancy, and nothing sensational, they struck the keynote of a genuine 
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he dealt exclusively with American life as he found it in the country in the New 
England States. And this feature Ave regard one of the most valuable in these 
writings. They are to the country life of New England what the poetry of 
Crabbe was to the common rural life of his day. Were every other book sunk in 
the sea, it would be possible for the historian to reconstruct a complete picture 
of the common life of the New England of fifty years ago from this series of 
juveniles, in reading the history of the American Revolution in this series, we 
are struck with the author's ability to tell a plain story aijd bring out the points 
most interesting to the young in natural relief." — Journal of Education. 

" We welcome, and we think the present juvenile generation will Avelcome, 
T. Y. Crowell & Co.'s republication of this series of juvenile classics. The ' Rollo ' 
and the ' Lucy ' and ' Jonas ' Books are written Avith only the children Avithin the 
Avriter's horizon, as the children Avere first in the AA'ritors heart. Some years ago 
the NeAV York Nation called for a reprint of the ' Rollo Books,' and placed them 
among the best, if it did not declare them to be absolutely the best of all modern 
juveniles." — Christian Union. 

"After all, can any ncAV books for children — do any — have quite the charm 
of these old favorites? Oli, there never Avere such books as these in their day ; 
and there are some Avise heads Avho maintain that there never have been their 
like since. The author's faculty for arresting attention by means of common 
things and turning it to instructive uses, amounts almost, if not quite, to genius." 
— Literarii World. 

" No recent publication is likely to meet a more cordial reception among young 
people than the reprint of Jacob Abbott's Avorks just issued by Messrs. T. Y. 
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of the time. Delightfully refreshing as they Avere to a generation nOAV, in a 
sense, beyond them, they have not yet become stale to the unvitiated mind of 
youth. The boy or girl of to-day will devour them Avith the same eagerness, the 
same healthy and unfailing relish Avith which they Avere originally received by 
his parents. The American History is equally admirable in its own Avay, and 
boys and girls desiring a simple, lucid, interesting recital of American History 
Aviil look in vain for a book better suited to their need." — N. Y. School Journal. 



Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, New York. 



POPULAR POETS. 



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Lady of the Lake. 



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The paper, prin.ting, and binding are also first-class in all respects, and 
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The price has also been fixed at a low rate, in order to insure the favor 
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A most Heliable and J^ahiable Booh of lieference. 



A DICTIONARY 

OF 

QUOTATIONS FROM THE POETS. 

Based upon BohYi's Edition, with numerous additions from American authors. 

Carefully revised and corrected, with Index of Authors and 

Chronological Data, and a Concordance Index 

to Every Passage in the Volume. 

Introductory Preface by R. H. Stoddard. 



Crown 8vo, 768 pp., $2,60. Interleared Edition, 



Especial care has been taken to insure accuracy of text, the copy having been 
compared with author's text before putting in type, and again verified by com- 
paring the proof-sheets with the original text, so that each quotation has been 
verified not only by the compiler, but also by an expert employed for this pur- 
pose. 

Extract from Introductory Preface. 

** I have examined this Dictionary of Poetical Quotations carefully, and, bearing 
in mind the multitude of difficulties which must have beset the making of it. 1 can 
honestly say that, in my opinion, they have been triumphed over by the maker. 
This Dictionary of Poetical Quotations ought to be the best that has yet been 
compiled, partly because it is the latest, and partly because it covers more 
ground and embraces more poets than any other. I agree with Oldys in regard 
to the qualifications necessary in an editor of poetic anthologies, and that thoy 
are largely possessed by the reader-general for mankind who has digested what- 
ever is most exquisite in our poets into this Dictionary of Poetical Quotations." 

The Century, New York, June 20, 1883. ^'* ^^' STODDARD. 

From the Editor's Preface. 

" The present work is the American version of the latest edition of Dohn's 
Dictionary of Poetical Quotations, it largely represents American authors, and 
embraces many additions from English writers. All the quotations have been 
carefully compared with the author's text, not one being included the accuracy 
of which has not been verified. Full references have been supplied in every in- 
stance. 

"The quotations from Shakespeare's Plays have been verified by Charles 
Knight's text, and those from his Poems, by I\Irs. liorace Howard Furness's 
Concordance to Shakespeare ; those from the Old Dramatists by Routledgo'^ 
edition ; and those from other authors, by the best editions of their Avorks. 

" Subjects have been grouped, and full cross-references have been made. 

" Every quotation has been consecutively numbered, and a Concordance Index 
added, giving the prominent Avords in each exti-act twice or more, so that every 
passage can be readily referred to. 

"The i^laces, and dates of birth and death are given, with the autliors' names, 



A Dictionary of Quotations from the Poets. 

in an Index showing the quotations from each writer. In long poems the lines 
have been counted, and the extracts verified by a reference to the exact passage. 
" It is believed that by these methods, and by the great care observed in proof- 
reading, this volume will approve itself to the tastes and necessities of the ordi 
nary reader, as well as to all literary and studious persons, containing, as it does, 
so choice a representation of English verse." 



Notices of the Press. 

"This handsome volume of 770 pages seems to include about everything neces- 
sary for the use of the student or professional reader in the matter of poetical 
quotation. Thousands of young people, during the closing years of their school- 
life, need such a dictionary of the i)oets as this, with carefully-selected passages 
under appropriate headings, a copious index of quotations, and such an invalu- 
able index of authors as the book contains. The prtsent work apjsears to us to 
meet the requirements of the great mass of readers of poetry better than any 
that has fallen under our observatitm. — Joiavial of Education. 

"The system of indexing by numbering the passages, and referring to thorn by 
numbers "^in the Index of Authors and General Index is a very thorough piece of 
work." — Good Litcritturc. 

"The highest ambition of the compiler in this kind of work should be accvracy, ' 
flood judgment in the selection of quotations, and their arratigenunt , on all 
"these points the compilation stands strong, and cannot fail to prove highly use- 
ful." — Independent. 

"Not only very comprehensive, but is also admirably indexed and arranged." 

— Cliristian U)ilon. 

" Those who have need of poetical quotations will find nothing more completely 
adapted to their desires than this book. We knoAv of none as good — L'ohn's 
edition has }io index." — Christian hitelhgencer. 

"■ The more competent the critic wdio examines it the heartier will be his favor- 
able verdict." — Conf/regationalist. 

" The connnendation of IL H. Stoddard, which is embodied as a preface, is a 
sufficient testimonial to its merits." — Boston Pilot. 

" For variety, fullness of illustration of each topic, scope, and value of the 
quotations, the work is superior to any other with which 1 am acquainted. It 
should find a place in every library." — C?/?*ms Noi-throp,ProJ'.ofI!hetoric and 
Kn(jli.-<h Literature in Yale College. 

" It has been compile<l with excellent judgment and evidently ■with great care, 
and is printed and indexed in a way to satisfy the most exacting. It is a useful 
and atti-active book." —Prof. Edvln II. Gf-lffin, WiUi/ims College, Mass. 

"It seems to be unusually full and accurate. I tested it on various critical 
passages, and found it always correct." — Prof. Wm. Hand Brotcne, Johns Hop- 
kins Unirerslfjf. 

" A work which will add materially to our stock of useful works of reference." 

— Wm. E. Foster, Librarian Pror. Public Lihrarii. 

"A vast improvement upon Bohn's original compendium." — E. C. Stedman. 

" Highly creditable to the compiler's taste, industry, and accuracy." — John G. 
Whit tier. 

"Contains avast amount of quotable verse, and appears to be faithfully in- 
dexed." — Olirer Wendell Holmes. 

"An exceptionally thorough and conscientious work, showing a catholicity of 
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" The volume well deserves a place in every working library, and will be found 
useful by all readers and students. — Boston Journal. 

" A treasure-house of high thoughts, elegantly expressed. It will be found ex- 
ceedingly useful for reference. — Portland Transcript. 



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An Megant Holiday Volume of Poetical Selections. 



THE 

dambridje Bool^ of poeliri!} and ^onj. 

Selected from English and American Authors. 

Collected and edited by Chaklotte Fiske Batk.s, of Cambridge, 

compiler of " The Longfellow Birthday Book," 

" Seven Voices of Sympa:thy," etc. 

With a Steel Portrait of Longfellow, 
and 1() full-page illustrations, from origi- 
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" " " full morocco, gilt, 10 

In a work of this character great liter- 
ary taste and discrimination are required 
to successfully wiiniow the chaff from 
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has proved herself peculiarly fitted, and 
has given much time and labor to gather 
i)i one volume such selections as are 
worthy of a place among the choicest 
poetry of the English language. 

The collection is especially full and 
complete in extracts from living Ameri- 
can authors, many of whom are represented in no other compilation ; 
while care has been taken to include those also without which a work oi' 
this description would be incomplete. 

Especial care has also been taken to have the text accurate and free 
from typographical errors, the copy having been carefully revised by 
the compiler and competent proof-readers. The iiuhves, three in lium- 
ber, are minute and complete in every respect, and leave nothing to be 
desired in this particular. The arranf/einent of the poems is on a plan 
wholly different from that commonly pursued; the authors being placed 
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section instead of being scattered through the book under different head- 
ings. It is believed t'.iis feature will prove a great convenience to those 
who may use the work for reference. 

The ilitislrdtions have been designed by some of the best and most emi- 
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The whole work has been faithfully performed, both in the matter of 
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* 

For Sale by all Booksellers. 

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A Volume which fairly Rivals all others in the Field. 

The Cambridge Book 

OF 

POETRY AND SONG. 

An Elegant Volume of Poetical Selections, from English and 
American Authors. 

Collected and Edited by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES, compiler of ilie 
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With Steel Porti-ait of Longfellow, and 16 full-page Illustrations from original 
Designs by Chukch, Diel.man, Fredericks, Fenx, Gti-Fono, Mlri'hy, 
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Cloth, Full Gilt $5.00 1 Half Mor., Gilt Top .... §7,50 

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" A collection that will earn for itself a recognized and almost special place. 
Miss Bates has done her work with notable taste and judgment." — A)s/ow 
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and rich collection." —Interior. 

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figure in previous anthologies." — E. C. Stedman. 

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of the best collections of English poems to be'found in the language." — Chicago 
iV. IF. Chris. Adv. 

" Miss Bates is known as the best compiler in the country. I shall give the 
volume an honorable place in my library." — John G. Whittier. 

" One of the most elegant and valuable holiday books for the coming season." 
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THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., PUBLISHERS, 

Agents Wanted. 13 Astor Place, New York. 



THE ONLY C0MPLE2E LINE OF POETS PUBLISHED IN 
THIS COUNTRY. --s ,^ 

CROWELL'S ■ 

RED LINE POETS, 



59 Volumes. 12mo. Per Volume, $1.25. 




*Ai:roka Lkigh. 
*Browxing (Mrs.)- 
^Browning (Robert), 

*BURXS. 

*Byrox. 

Campbell. 

Chaucer. 

Coleridge. 

Cook (Eliza). 

Cowper. 

Crabbe. 

Daxte. 

Dry DEN. 
*Eliot (George). 
♦Favorite Poems. 
*Faust (Goethe's). 

Goethe's Poems. 
♦Goldsmith. 
*Hemans. 

Herbert. 



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AND Elegantly Bound in new and beautiful designs. 

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The following now comprise the list: — 



Hood. 

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Irish Melodies. 
"Jean Inge low. 

Keats. 

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"Lay of the Last Min- 
strel. 

"LUCILE. 

:Macaulay. 
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«Meredith (Owen). 
^'Milton. 

MuLOCK (:Miss). 
'^:Moore. 

Odyssey. 

OSSIAN. 

Pilgrim's Progress. 
Poetry of Flowers. 



"^PoE (Edgar A.). 
Pope. 

*PROrTER, 

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Sacred Poems. 
'^Schiller. 

*SCOTT. ^ 

^Shakespeare. 
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Shipton (Anna). 

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Surf and Wave. 
*swinburne. 
*Tennyson. 

Thomson. 

TUPPEE. 

Virgil. 

White (Kirke). 
*Wordsworth. 



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•^::2^^ 



